Thoughts
by petro13
Summary: House and Cameron. Follows Cameron's feelings about House. It starts season three and goes into season four. Angsty relationship drama. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

So this is my attempt at some House/Cameron angst. I'm toying with the idea of making it into a multi-chapter fic. I wrote this in about 25 minutes last night. Once I got started it just kept on coming.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, but if I did, they would be in a very graphic relationship at this point.

How I wish you could see the potential

The potential of you and me

It's like a book elegantly bound

But in a language that you can't read

-Death Cab for Cutie

Thoughts

Doesn't he see the possibilities? All the wonderful, intoxicating, and excruciating, possibilities?

She does.

She thinks about them all the time.

During her morning jog, while shopping at the grocery store, in the car, at work, especially at work.

She sees herself peering up at him from underneath his desk, his eyes glazed over recovering from his orgasm, her mouth gathered up at the

corners in the semblance of his telltale smirk.

She imagines the feel of the cool tiles against her bare back as he pushes her roughly against the

side of the deserted hospital pool; the buoyancy of the water giving him the feeling of weightlessness, and her the satisfaction of getting him to

the physical therapy department.

She imagines it happening at his place. For some reason always late, dark outside. It fits them better. She

sees rich colors. The mocha colored leather of his couch, the amber liquid in his heavy bottomed glass tumbler, the smooth, glossy, black finish

on his baby grand, the deep mahogany wood of his bed.

She sees skin, sweat, and sheets.

* * *

She doesn't know how much longer she can wait.

Why doesn't he see?

She is right here. Waiting. Wanting.

She doesn't need his professions of love, she doesn't need his affection, she needs his body moving against hers, needs it. Plain, simple and

animalistic. He is an overtly observant man, so why can't he see that she is right here before him: open.

* * *

She is literally directly in front of him in the conference room, letting her mind go completely.

She should be listening to Foreman's prospective diagnosis, but she can't.

He looks especially good today. Maybe it's because it is a Monday and she hasn't seen him for two days over the weekend.

Agony.

Or maybe it's because he is wearing the dark blue shirt that in turn darkens his eyes to how she imagines they would look

during their carnal acts. She takes a few deep breathes, readjusts herself in her chair, and tries to refocus.

_Oh god-_ she thinks because he is staring at her now, that deep, penetrating, seemingly never-ending gaze that roots her to her spot around the

glass table. She realizes that he has asked her a question. She hadn't heard a word. She was focusing on the point where his beard growth

stops midway down his throat, and where his chest begins, and how she would latch her mouth just there, she thinks.

"I'm sorry what were you saying?"

Cameron shakes her head, having to clear her throat, raspy from her silence throughout this entire differential diagnosis session. House straightens up, tells Foreman and Chase to disperse, and quickens Cameron's pulse with two words,

"You, stay."

It is an order. She will obey implicitly. She has spent a good deal of time pondering the amount of control he has over her. She considers herself

a strong, independent person. She watched her husband die. She stands by her moral convictions. She puts up with his constant belittlements.

But if he were to assume control, she would give herself over to him completely. A thought that simultaneously arouses and frightens her.

She follows him into his private office. She tries to maintain her composure, but this is a thrill.

She is alone with him. In her mind she makes elaborate plans, plans that involve her strutting up to him and placing herself in his lap, assuming

the control, initiating the contact, but in this moment, she is lost.

She waits for him to commence, always waiting. Finally he speaks,

"Is your mother sick?"

She is confused. She shakes her head in the negative. He continues to stare; she can literally see him rearranging the puzzle pieces, finding

where some fit and where others still need to find another place.

"Are you pregnant?"

Now, she is really confounded. _Why would he think that?_ She answers with honesty.

"Of course not."

"Then what's your excuse? These past few weeks my annoyance with your insane sense of moral code has dropped dramatically, it's an

anomaly. Where's the ever ethically conscious Cameron I'm familiar with?"

Cameron seems to have recovered slightly. It isn't obvious but he is showing his concern for her well-being. This excites her, but she must put on an air of indifference. She manages an eye roll and makes a move towards the door.

"I'm sorry to have bitten my tongue and made your life easier; remind me not to do that next time."

She puts on her mask too.

"Stop."

And she does, which only adds to her complete self-loathing. A smirk plays on his lips, if only he knew the full extent of his control.

"You always question me. If it's not my diagnosis, it's my motive. Why no inquisition?" He is standing now, circling around the front of his

desk.

What is the correct response?

_Because you invade my thoughts every waking moment._

_Because I feel like if I don't have you or get away from you I will suffocate._

_Because I've thought about doing things to you that make me question how morally righteous I really am._

"It's complicated,"

is all she can come up with on the spot. She exits quickly. She knows he isn't satisfied. She knows that he will continue

to pry until he has exhausted every angle, discovered every subtle nuance, and committed it to memory.

Once she leaves his office, she enters the ladies' room. She closes the door to a stall and inhales. How can a simple encounter with him be so

intense? She realizes that she is doing this to herself. He seems perfectly capable of continuing their usual (fucked up) working relationship.

She is the one granting him entrance to her thoughts.

She is the one who can barely control her primal feelings.

She is the masochist.

* * *

As the day progresses, she does contribute, just enough to appease him for the remainder of the afternoon. Although when she gathers her

belongings to leave for the night, his fixed glare is not lost on her.

She has become accustomed to reading his expressions: fascination, frustration, surreptitiousness, pain. This face is determined.

_Oh shit._

She isn't really all that surprised when later that night she opens her apartment door to blue.

Tbc?


	2. 2 Feeling Blue

I don't care if it hurts

I want to have control

I want a perfect body

I want a perfect soul

I want you to notice when I'm not around

-Radiohead

* * *

Feeling Blue

Blue is the color of many things. The sky, the ocean, it is also the color of her eventual demise.

When she opens her door, he is leaning against the frame.

He stands there, looking down at her, waiting.

But he has come to _her. _She wants him to make the first move. Which he does.

"You're keeping something from me."

His voice is even, he isn't angry, this is merely an observation. Cameron looks beyond him and sees her crotchety old neighbor, Mrs. Farris,

sending her most condescending glare down the hall towards Cameron's door; obviously eyeing up her late night visitor. It seems House

had made an extra effort to knock at an inappropriately loud decibel. She steps aside, opening the door, silently ushering him into her

home. The last thing she needs is her elderly neighbor complaining to the landlord that she brings mysterious men into her apartment under

the cover of darkness. He looks at her skeptically before pushing himself off the doorframe, crossing the threshold.

Uncharted territory.

"I'm allowed to have secrets. You're just my boss. My personal life is none of your business."

Why is she saying this?

_Actually it is your business because I want you in my personal life._

_And you've always been more than a boss._

"If it affects your job-which is has- it is my business."

She can think of no retort for this.

"Why are you here House? What do you w--"

He isn't looking at her; he is across the room, observing her bookshelves; his eyes are scanning the spines, examining her photos, and inspecting her various knick-knacks, when he interrupts her mid-sentence.

"You base your entire perspective on the belief that people are generally good and moral beings,"

_Here we go again_-she thinks.

"You have spent the last three years debating over every ethical quandary that's come through my office door, and you have never been

quiet about it. But now,"

He turns to face her; begins stalking towards her. She still hasn't moved more that a foot from her closed door.

"I might as well use patients as my own personal pin cushions since you don't seem to challenge my decisions anymore."

He keeps coming closer. Her breathing becomes shallower.

"So, I have to assume that your newfound spell of silence," he stops directly in front of her, "has to do with me."

Now all she sees is blue. He towers over her. She thinks this one encounter will suffice her fantasies for weeks to come.

She can smell him.

Her eyes tentatively flick up to meet his.

It's like the severity of gaze extracts all the oxygen from the room, and suddenly she needs air, needs space.

She tries to push past him further into the room, but his hand encircles her wrist.

The force of his pull draws her against his body.

She finally feels him.

She is surprised to feel his arousal.

She notices a new look in his eyes. She recognizes this look. She has seen it before in her own eyes: depravity.

He wants her.

His eyes are no longer looking at hers, no, now they are intently focused on her lips.

He leans forward, just enough to brush his lips against hers.

He does not close his eyes.

She is too startled to react at all.

Upon reflecting this moment, Cameron will realize that it doesn't feel like a kiss at all, more like an experimental trial.

It was as if he was only trying to determine what it felt like, and gauge her reaction.

"This…this is what you want." He says it slowly, as if it is a new realization.

_Like you didn't already know_.

Cameron can only nod. She sees that he is thinking, over-analyzing, so she stands up on her tiptoes to try and reach his lips again, but he moves away from her.

"I should go."

He releases the hold he has on her, and she senses the disconnect immediately.

Within moments he has moved past her and out the door, the latch clicking with the finality of his hurried exit.

Her tongue runs over her lips, trying to find any taste of him left behind.

She knows this attempt is futile.

That kiss wasn't strong enough to leave an aftertaste, yet it feels so significant.

No, it was only a ghost of a kiss.

Instead of feeling complete rejection, she feels something closer to elation.

This is progress.

Granted, it isn't one of her illicit fantasies where they engage in sensuous acts on her living room floor, but it is definitely something.

She had felt, if only for a brief moment, the feel of his body pressed along her front, the pressure of his arousal pushing her, the sensation

of his lips against her own. She realizes that she needs that feeling.

She has never wanted anything more in her life.

Now she has affirmed that he wants her.

She had her suspicions but now she is certain.

Now she has the confidence she needs to possess him, to control their eventual union.

She will have him. It's only a matter of time.

* * *

Ugh, the more I read this the more I dislike it. It's odd, I first envisioned this going much differently in my mind, oh well.

Let me know what you think!


	3. The Death of an Ideal

The Waiting Game

There are days when outside your window

I see my reflection as I slowly pass

Then I'll long for this mirrored perspective

When we'll be lovers, lovers at last

-Death Cab for Cutie

The Death of an Ideal

She knows that he has noticed.

They are subtle changes; a little more makeup, one less blouse button done up, but for her they are huge insights into her new outlook on

this situation.

Bold.

Foreman just raised an eyebrow; Chase didn't even give her a second glance, but _he_ noticed.

_Of course_

He sits at his desk, silently swiveling back and forth.

He stares, blatantly stares at her.

She knows he is watching.

When she sits at the conference table her skirt hitches up and the slit exposes her mid thigh. His eyes immediately follow the newly

uncovered skin.

_Good_, she thinks, _this skirt is serving its intended purpose._

She teasingly crosses her legs achingly slowly.

He continues to leisurely swivel in his chair, side to side.

Chase leaves; heading down to finish his clinic hours, Foreman is facing away from them, unaware of the insane eye-fuck going on

between his two colleagues.

House lifts his chin slightly. It is his silent queue to her. She thinks she understands what he wants.

With a quick glance in Foreman's direction to make sure that he is still preoccupied with the newspaper in front of him, Cameron uncrosses

and then spreads her legs just the slightest bit.

The shift is barely even enough to be considered provocative, but their entire relationship has been built on nothing but small touches and

lingering looks.

She has never been this turned on in her life.

This wet.

He hasn't even touched her and she is barely containing the helpless noises threatening to spill from her throat.

Now she knows. She knows they will have sex. She knows that he knows it too.

* * *

She considers her options. She could leave a note for him on his desk.

_A note? God that's juvenile _

_Well, he's a little juvenile_

_What would the note say? Fuck me right here in front of Foreman?_

_Besides it's too risky, Cuddy is always snooping_

Maybe she could just show up at his place tonight.

_Yeah that would work out well, show up while he's screwing a prostitute_

_Does he actually do that?_

Her internal monologue is interrupted.

"Foreman, go make your self useful elsewhere." House is talking to Foreman, but he keeps his eyes on Cameron.

Annoyed, Foreman responds,

"Got a place in mind or should I just aimlessly wander until I find someone to work for?"

"Your people are good at that aren't they? I'm sure you can figure something out."

Foreman just rolls his eyes at House's racist remark and exits the conference room.

Now it is just them.

Alone.

Her heart races.

_This is it_ -she thinks.

Anticipation is building within her body, but it is fleeting. He stands to leave.

"Where are you going?" She asks her voice is rather breathless.

"To eat some food, find a case, and then jerk off," he stops in mock contemplation. "Maybe not in that order."

She makes a silent "Oh" with her mouth as the blush rises in her cheeks.

* * *

He returns with a case.

The whole team has made it back to the conference room, and House throws the copies of the file down onto the middle of the table. Each

respective doctor grabs a folder and begins reading. House sits at the head of the table eyes intently focused on her.

Of course.

She is carefully scanning the text before her. Jacob Gibson, age five, chronic fatigue, joint pain, and vomiting.

_Lovely_- she thinks.

He stands, marker in hand, "So anybody got any ideas?"

* * *

A death sentence.

This little boy needed surgery, a surgery he probably won't live through, and even if he did, the life he would lead would be one filled with

pain, frustration, and overall misery.

_That sounds rather familiar_

He knows this is hitting her hard.

He is testing her.

She knows he is trying to make her a better doctor, but in this moment she just considers him an asshole playing god. So, it really pisses

her off when he sends her to stand in on the boy's surgery.

Her feet hurt through hour three, but she is too focused on her patient's monitors to notice the dull ache beginning. Then, it happens in a

single moment.

* * *

Blood is everywhere.

It is drenching her scrubs.

It is in her hair, squelching in her shoes.

She has never seen this much blood.

An artery must have burst.

She doesn't remember much. Jacob is dead. His blood is all over her. She is sitting in the hospital locker room, the shower is running, but

she cannot get in.

She is staring in the mirror; the image of this child's blood all over her is startling.

It is deep crimson, her skin is translucent white, and her scrubs _were_ a dull salmon color.

She realizes that she must be crying because her cheeks feel wet. She hadn't noticed; she isn't making any noise. She collapses down on

the bench. Then the sobs begin.

She hears the handle of the locker room door turning.

_Oh please no, anyone but him._

It's him.

He takes in her form. She is still wearing her blood-soaked scrubs, her eyes are red from crying, she is shaking; her hair even still has blood

in it; probably from her hands. He sees that she had turned on the shower.

"You plan on wearing that all night?" He motions with his head to her attire. Her eyes plead with him to leave her alone.

"House, please just… leave." She is too exhausted to hear once again that she is weak and pathetic. That she still cares too much and that

she will never be a good doctor until she can't feel anymore. She supposes she will never be a good doctor then.

_He can break me_

"Stand up." When he speaks she just looks up at him. She is trying to convey her exhaustion merely through actions without saying a word.

He rolls his eyes at her and then grabs her upper arms. They shuffle silently towards the shower. Their gait is awkward; he with his limp

and her weak shaky legs make for an interesting combination. He slides back the curtain and ushers her against the back wall of the

shower onto the bench meant for handicapped users. He backs away for moment, still directly in front of her. He begins to remove his sport

jacket.

_What is he doing?_

He toes off his shoes one by one, and then works on the buttons of his shirt. He slips off the button down; he looks around for a moment,

and then goes to lock the room's door.

He pulls his t-shirt over his head and lays them all down over the bench in the center of the room. He stands before her, clad in only his

jeans and looks completely floundered.

She assumes that even he doesn't quite know what he is doing yet.

He enters the large shower stall and closes the curtain. He locked the door so no one would see them anyway, but it blocks some of the

light and the darkness is soothing to her tired eyes.

"Can you stand up?" His voice is calm. It isn't overflowing with compassion, but it lacks its usual gruffness.

She nods.

She reaches out for him and he steadies her by holding her waist. After a moment he begins to pull at her scrub top. He lifts it over her

head and now she is clad in only her bra. She stares up at him; eyes questioning. He shrugs at her, his motions saying,

"_Well, you couldn't keep wearing it, and you weren't taking it off yourself_."

He redirects the water's flow towards them and then stands in front of it, so that the water cascades down his back, getting the top of his

jeans wet.

"Feel this," he grabs her hand and puts it under the stream, "is this too hot?"

She shakes her head no. He then unties the drawstring of her scrub bottoms and slowly pulls them down her hips. He has to kneel

awkwardly and she puts her hands on his now wet shoulders for balance. She feels like a 5 year-old who can't tie her own shoes. She

stands in front of him now, in only her undergarments. He throws them towards the back of the shower stall where her top is as well.

Reality is a funny thing.

You tweak the context of this scenario the slightest bit, and it becomes a whole different situation.

This is not the situation she imagined, no, this is the fucked up real life version of them.

He puts her under the stream of the water and silently washes the blood out of her hair.

There are no shampoos or conditioners, but he works his hands through effectively none the less. Even in the darkness she can see the

blood leaving her hair and swirling towards the drain. There is something faintly sexual about his touching her, but it doesn't feel

uncomfortable or awkward.

It feels good.

She hasn't had this much care placed on her well being in a while, but, she supposes, it is also because _he_ is the one who is touching her.

His jeans are soaked now, but all the remnants of Jacob have been washed off her body. He turns off the faucet and as he wraps the towel

around her she notices the look on his face as he examines her body.

She wilts under his scrutiny.

She knows she is too thin.

She doesn't need him to tell her. She closes the towel around her body and pulls back the shower curtain. She opens her locker and begins

to pull out her extra clothes. He stands there uncomfortably. She realizes that he probably hadn't thought this all the way through and now

has no dry pants to wear. She puts on her track pants and the sweater she packed and looks at him putting his t-shirt back on.

She goes to a locker a few down from her own and opens it.

She rifles around and comes out with a pair of men's slacks. She throws them at him, he looks at her confused.

"This nurse picks up her husband's dry cleaning on the way to work, stashes it in her locker. He's a tall guy; they might be a little big around

the waist."

He nods and takes off his jeans and puts the new pants on. She is right, they are a little baggy in the waist, but they are long enough and

they are dry.

"We are going back to your place."

It is not a question, she is inviting herself over.

Today she was determined to have him. The death of a patient shouldn't deter her from her plan.

_People die everyday_

She will keep telling herself that.

"We?" He isn't sure where she is going with this.

She shrugs,

"I need the misery fucked out of me by someone."

Notes: Wow that was long for me. I tried a little something more. Let me know if this totally tanked.


	4. Start Again

Oh I've sinned

I've sinned against my youth

I won't apologize for what feels right

Bit the apple just for you

My desire won that fight

-Natalie Walker

Start Again

"_I need the misery fucked out of me by someone."_

_Well, that was bold at least._

They are sitting in his apartment now, on opposite sides of the room. Neither of them knows how to start this thing between them because they know it will change

things irrevocably. The silence between them has exceeded minutes now.

"I don't know why I agreed to this."

He is sitting in his leather armchair, passing his cane back and forth between his hands, with his elbows resting on his knees. He won't look at her. His voice sounds

doubtful and almost embarrassed.

She realizes that he is nervous.

It occurs to her that he probably hasn't done this in a long time; years even.

He is out of his element. She knows that this is her chance. She will never have him like this again. With this man there is a fine line.

He must be pushed to toe the border of anything outside the secluded comforts he has created for himself, but push too far and he will retreat into himself completely.

"No one is making you do anything."

She finds it funny that even when she is at his home, and has made it adamantly clear that she would be willing to fuck him in any way possible, he is still suspicious

of her motives for wanting him.

_Willing to fuck him? More like my privilege_

She gets up and takes matters into her own hands.

She knows that his hesitance is his way of taking control from her.

If he can control the situation, it won't seem so frighteningly unfamiliar. The point of no return is growing closer with each step. She is in front of him now.

The cane stops. He puts it off to the side of the chair and stands to his full height.

"If we do this…there's no going back. I won't coddle you. I'm not going to quell the regrets you'll have."

_Tell me something I don't know_

"How do you know I'll regret this?"

She is trying to match him tit for tat. She should know better than to engage in a game of wits with the most brilliant man she has ever known.

He returns the volley with a devious grin that makes her stomach drop about two floors.

"Because I know you."

She gives him a look that reads as both skeptical and annoyed. He amends his statement.

"And because we both know nothing good will come of this." He motions to the air between the two of them.

His smugness bothers her. Not two minutes ago he was insecure, and she had the upper hand. How can he turn this around so quickly? This was not part of her plan.

She literally will not wait another moment. She tries to push him back down into his chair. She is prepared to screw him in the middle of his living room, but he stops her,

"Bedroom."

She nods; she realizes how impractical it would be for him with his leg.

She turns from him and saunters out of the room with all the confidence she can muster. There is no fumbling with clothing, or stumbling down the hallway.

There is no pushing up against walls or even touching. They almost march down the hallway to the bedroom; him following her. It will be a battle after all.

When they reach his bedroom, she feels like there is a tremendous heaviness weighing down on them, on what's about to take place. Apparently he feels it too

because they just stand at the foot of the bed, staring at each other, waiting.

* * *

He feels so good.

He is being soft, gentle and attentive.

She supposes that he thinks he will break her if he touches her too roughly, or perhaps he knows that it is slowly driving her to madness.

This is a softness she has rarely seen. In the beginning, she thought this was what she wanted, what she always suspected he was capable of.

_I can't believe I was ever that naïve_

_I have changed, __he never will_

But now that this moment is here, his gentleness frustrates her. When is he ever gentle? When has he ever treated her with any sort of softness?

Never.

They are on his bed now, she is beneath him.

_As always_

She pushes harder against his mouth, but he doesn't respond the way she wants him to.

She wants him pissed off.

She wants it to hurt.

If she wanted sweet caresses, she would go elsewhere. She makes a somewhat rash decision. She pushes her hand down rather roughly against his maimed thigh.

He releases a painful grunt into her mouth. He tries to pull away but she grabs the back of his head and holds his mouth to hers. She bites his lip. She wants him to

feel some of the pain he has caused her. She wants their performance to mirror the volatile status of their relationship. She wants to push him to the breaking point.

In his moment of weakness she pushes him off her and onto his back. She forces her tongue into his mouth, kissing him in the dirty way she wanted to be

manhandled.

When he starts pushing back and letting out sounds of frustration she smiles against his mouth.

She knew he wouldn't take to being controlled very well. As the pain in his leg subsides he becomes a more active participant. He is pushing his hips against hers.

She has never been this turned on. She gets immense satisfaction for being the reason for his arousal.

She pulls away from his mouth and sits up. He looks up at her pleadingly. She can tell that he is silently praying for her to not talk about feelings.

_You've stripped most of those from me_

She takes hold of his belt and slides the leather through the clunky metal latch. He can only watch; chest heaving, mouth slightly agape.

She opens his boxers and takes hold of him with as much pressure as she can manage. He, for once, is rendered speechless.

Now that she can finally see his erection, she starts to worry about the logistics of this situation. Suddenly she goes from commanding woman to anemic over anxious

girl.

"Um, how do you… I don't want to hurt-"

He sits up now, and divests her of her shirt. She is wearing a skirt and she is not wearing panties. His hands move along her exposed thighs.

He has exceptionally beautiful hands. She has always thought so, and now as they move over her skin, she can't help but take hold of one.

She inspects the length of his fingers, the lines of his palm. She takes his middle finger and puts it entirely into her mouth. After a few moments, she slides it out

slowly, inch by inch. He is watching her every move, and as soon as his finger has fully left her mouth he kisses her.

_This is getting too deep_

She puts a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Show me."

He nods and then taps her thigh so she dismounts his lap. He pulls both his shirts over his head and throws them in the general direction of his armoire.

He turns her around so she isn't facing him. He props himself up against the headboard and settles in behind her.

He pulls her down onto his erection, and she hates herself for it but she cries out. She has wanted this for so long.

He wraps an arm around her, pulling her back against his chest and grabbing her breast. He presses his forehead against the nape of her neck.

She suspects he is having trouble controlling his body. His right leg is bent at the knee so it won't be jarred, and his left leg is extended straight in front of them.

When he moves just the slightest bit, she comes. She feels the scrape of his stubble against her back when he smirks against her skin.

He moves slowly at first and when she has recovered somewhat she moves with him meeting his thrusts. He slides down a little bit and _oh! _a new angle.

She has never been fucked like this; never been this immersed in another person. She feels him everywhere, inside her, over her skin, he invades her thoughts.

She can tell he is close, every time she makes a sound he throbs inside her. She has decided that she loves this feeling.

He wants to come; she wants him to come all over his sheets.

Because of her.

She takes the hand that has latched onto her breast and guides it down her stomach until their joined hands are stroking her clit.

Then, in one last stilted upward thrust, and a log groan he comes. So does she.

_Pure bliss_

They stay locked together for a few moments, both recovering, but she doesn't want this to become awkward. She sits up and he slips out of her.

He reaches over to the bedside table and grabs his vicodin. Then he arranges himself back into his pants. She watches all this, trying to get a read on him.

She pulls the sheets around her body, attempting to cover up her nakedness.

"It's a little late for modesty." She should have known he would be this way.

"I'm cold," she lies. She can't help the fact the under his gaze she wilts. She yawns, he notices.

"And apparently tired."

"Yeah, I should probably get home." She runs a hand over her hair, and looks around trying to find the whereabouts of her discarded sweater.

"I drove you." There is no underlying proposition. He is merely stating a fact.

"I can call a cab if you want." She won't pressure him. He has been more "cordial" than she ever thought he would be. She wonders how much patience he has left.

"Do what you want." He answers with a shrug and picks at imaginary lint on the comforter.

_What kind of answer is that? _

Said sweater has been located, crumpled at the foot of the bed. She drops the sheet and puts on her sweater. She sneaks a glance at him.

It was only for a split second, but she saw a look of disappointment mixed with confusion etched on his face. But just like that the mask slips back into place.

She stands from the bed makes it to the doorframe before she turns to him again.

"See you tomorrow? Work?"

He nods at her and his look of innocence is genuine. She gives him a small smile and disappears down the hall.

It is only after the click of his front door sounds that she allows a satisfied little laugh to escape her lips.

I wrote this at about 3 in the morning so it might not make total sense. haha.


	5. Nothing Something Everything

The first two episodes of season 5 have kinda sucked. And as for all this cuddy/house talk…I'm sad now.

You let me violate you

You let me desecrate you

You let me penetrate you

You let me complicate you

- Nine Inch Nails

Thoughts

Chapter 5: Nothing Something Everything

It has been a week. Over a week actually and nothing.

Not a word, no call, nothing.

Nothing except cold indigo eyes.

Since that night he has been especially distant towards her. She begins to feel dejected, used. She had expected some level awkwardness, but she

thought that maybe his newly unrepressed sex drive would motivate him to seek her out.

Apparently not.

She convinced herself that once would be enough. One night with him and then she could be sated.

_Yeah right _

Well, she got her fix and the high is over sooner than she had expected.

Now she is left yearning.

Again.

She should have known. The man is impossibly intoxicating.

Once would never be enough.

Never.

It's not as if she has a choice in the matter. If he decides he doesn't want her, she doubts another man will take his place. A definitive statement

coming from a not-even-thirty-year-old, but it is the truth.

She can't say he is the love of her life because love requires reciprocity; he isn't her lover because one night can be deemed a mistake, not a calculated

betrayal.

_And who would we be betraying?_

They are not "friends with benefits" because they are not friends, and she won't even consider them co-workers because the power

differential between them is blatantly obvious. What does that make him? A person of interest? She will have to think of an appropriate label.

* * *

Their patients hardly ever die.

He is a brilliant doctor.

He has accused her of putting too much faith in his abilities and maybe she has. She can't help it. Witnessing his moments of complete and utter genius

is invigorating. She loves the look on his face when the pieces fall into place. His brow furrows a little bit, his lips part slightly and his eyes glaze over.

_It's similar to the face he makes when he comes_

So, every once in a while when a diagnosis alludes them, it hits hard. She always takes death hard. Death is the inevitable shadow she fears will linger

over her life forever.

_Doctor might have been a bad choice _

He takes it harder, in a different way. He could care less about the person, the soul inside means nothing to him, he only cares about the body it

inhabits. With his leg out of commission, he thinks his brain is his only livelihood, and when it fails, she imagines he feels completely useless.

They are all in the conference room. He is uncharacteristically quiet. Foreman is spouting diagnosis after diagnosis, Chase is shooting them all down,

and she is watching _him_. He stares at the whiteboard, absently tapping the capped marker against his lips. They are all tired, nobody has left the

hospital for 36 hours and it is starting to show.

"We need to start treatment." House is talking with his back to the team. Foreman rolls his eyes; annoyed.

"Treatment for what? House, we haven't narrowed it down at all. Cameron thinks it's auto-immune,"

"She would." The first words coming from him that concern her in a week. Progress.

"Chase thinks it's an infection and I think its cancer. We can't agree on the diagnosis."

"But all of us can agree that standing around and doing nothing isn't going to help either. The treatment works we save her, if it doesn't she dies."

_An omen_

Their patient is dead.

Her ailment is something Cameron doesn't even remember how to pronounce. She thinks she remembers seeing it mentioned once before in the fine

print of one of her medical school textbooks, but she could just be creating memories and she certainly would have never suspected it in this case. But

when the autopsy came back House berated himself and sulked for days in his office; like he somehow should have known.

* * *

When she opens her door, he is there. She is taken aback, frightened even by the severe expression on his face.

"You gunna let me in?" His jaw is clenched, his eyes are dark, essentially a brooding mess.

It is a massive turn on for her.

She nods and allows him to enter her home. She turns around expecting him to be standing there awkwardly with the same pensive look on his face,

but all she sees is his retreating back heading down the hall to her bedroom. Well, at least that is where she assumes he is going. She follows his path

apprehensively. She hasn't seen or heard from him outside of work in over a week and suddenly he shows up at her door. As soon as she enters her

bedroom his mouth is on hers. He is forcing himself against her. He doesn't wait for her to get over her shock as he shoves his tongue into her mouth.

She grasps at his shoulders, the weight of his body pressing against hers is slowly driving her backward, and when they almost reach the tipping point

he shoves her onto the bed. He follows quickly after, lying on top of her. He invades her mouth with penetrating force. He is kissing her messily. She has

no doubt that she will have angry red marks on her cheeks from his beard growth. He sits up just enough to undo his belt and rip down her pants.

She is frightened, the adrenaline surging through her body is trying to tell her mind that this wrong, this is a threat, but she is beside herself with

arousal.

The fear only adds another dimension.

In his haste he doesn't remove her pants all the way. They have only slid down to mid thigh and she can't spread for him. So instead he puts two

fingers into her. No preamble, no permission requested. Not that he would need it. She is incredibly wet for him. This discovery only makes him more

desperate to be inside her. He curls his fingers and she lets out a silent gasp. She suspects that he takes great pleasure in this because he watches

her face, unwavering in his observation.

When she is close he stops.

Stop and go, back and forth, hot and cold; he is a seasoned expert in this seduction technique. Lead her on, then push her away, then give her just

enough to keep hanging on, and then string her along until she snaps. He grabs each side of her pants and pulls them down so that his fingernails

scrape over the skin of her thighs. When her pants gather around her ankles, she can bow her legs enough for him to fit between. The pleasure is too

intense for her. Her eyes are screwed shut and her head is turned to the side. His hand comes up under her jaw and forces her to look straight ahead.

As soon as she opens her eyes he pushes into her. Her bottom lip falls. She arches up, inadvertently catching his mouth. Not kissing, just touching.

He needed to see her face; he needed to know that he is still adept in some respect, that he is still capable. His hand leaves her face, his fingers brush

down her throat and then push against her shoulder, holding her in place.

His pace is relentless.

This is different from the first time.

The first time meant something else entirely. It meant something deeper.

This is carnal fucking.

She isn't sure which she likes better.

She has come twice already, but it is taking him a while to get there. She suspects that before he came to her, he effectively numbed himself with

alcohol and a couple extra vicodin and now his measures of self-medication are prolonging his agony for release. After a few more moments he groans

in frustration and slips out of her. He grabs her arms and flips her over so that she is face down on the mattress. She rests on her forearms as he

enters her from behind. She moans from the deeper penetration. He is pounding her now. She pushes back against him with each of his thrusts, trying

desperately to let him orgasm.

It's the least she can do for him.

He leans over her back and gropes her breasts in a last ditch effort, this must have worked because seconds later he goes still behind her, and she

feels his warm semen running down the inside of her thigh.

* * *

She drums her fingers along the edge of the sink.

She was right.

Little red dots have appeared around her mouth, evidence of his abrasiveness. Soon after he finished she escaped to the bathroom, choosing to avoid

the impending doom as long as possible.

Her eyes are slightly red.

She cried silently.

She cried because she hates herself; hates herself for enjoying this encounter. She hates that she is willing to do anything for him. She would never

allow another man do that to her, but because it was him, she succumbed. Her weakness in his presence is terrifying to her. And she hates him for

making her this way.

_Enough of this-_ she thinks.

She opens the bathroom door slowly. He is sitting up on her bed. His elbows are resting on his knees, his head is bowed. He looks up at her when he

sees the light from the bathroom spill onto floor. He motions to her solemn expression with a nod of his head.

"Not the reaction I was hoping for." She looks away ashamed.

"But the inevitable one I suppose."

She still stands awkwardly in the bathroom doorway, unsure of herself in her own bedroom.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head no.

_Not physically_

"You probably want me to leave." He stands up to re-buckle his belt and grab his discarded cane.

"What am I to you?" She looks to him. He seems confused by her question.

"What would you call this?" The distance between them is palpable. He sighs and looks away from her.

"Does it have to have a label?" He sits back down on the side of the bed to tie his shoes.

"I was just curious." The silence stretches on again. She opens her mouth to ask another question but then closes it, and then decides to go against

better judgment and ask anyway.

"Why do we only sleep together after someone dies?

She sees the exact moment that the realization washes over him.

"There hasn't been much sleeping involved." He sends an exaggerated wink her way. She gives him the most condescending glare she can muster. He

shrugs it off and stands up from the bed.

"Natural human reaction, taking solace in another during a time of grief…" He stands in front of her and she can tell he is looking for a way to initiate a

goodbye, and escape this whole situation.

"But you don't grieve. You don't care about any of these people. You couldn't care less if they lived or died."

Her voice is raised. She should have realized that by bringing up this subject matter, they would engage in the argument that defines their relationship.

He rolls his eyes at her and matches her tone.

"But you do. You care about all of them, even the ones that live. It's not your job to care about them, it's your job to treat them, and it ends there."

"I'd like to think that being a doctor requires more than just giving a diagnosis."

He shakes his head, disagreeing with her.

"No, any more than that and you won't be objective. You can't burden yourself with these people. You giving a damn about them changes nothing; it

certainly doesn't bring them back."

She holds his stare because she has nothing more to say. She can feel the tears welling up in her eyes.

"I'm leaving now." He turns to leave the room but she grabs his arm.

"Are you just using me to get off?

She doesn't sound angry now. She sounds sincere; she truly wants to know.

"Well unless you're a real pro, I'd say you got off too."

She drops his arm in frustration. His shoulders slump, he is obviously just as frustrated because his voice takes on a softer tone and he answers her.

"I wouldn't put it passed me."

_At least he is being honest_

"I don't," he starts and stops, "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what this is."

He motions between the two of them. His honesty pleases her, and frankly, she doesn't know what she is doing either. She takes a step closer to him

so that they are standing toe to toe.

She kisses him.

She kisses him softly, meticulously. His mouth responds on its own accord, but his body remains rigid, arms at his sides. Her hands are on his belt, and

he breaks away from her to watch their movements. She pops the button and pulls down the zipper. She drops to her knees in front of him. His eyes

widen, and when she takes him into her mouth he grasps the bathroom's doorframe to keep himself upright. When he comes into her mouth minutes

later, he looks down to see her smirking back up at him.

"What the hell was that for?"

_To build a pavlovian response to honesty?_

It was the first time she had ever initiated a sexual act with him. She delights in the fact that she is just as capable of pleasing him as he is of her.

"You don't have to leave, you might as well stay and get some sleep, there's only three more hours until we have to get up for work anyway."

He looks at her and then down the hallway towards the front door, weighing the options. After a moment, he leans his cane against the wall by the

bathroom and steps out of his shoes. She is enormously relieved. She supposes that his judgment is probably clouded by the residual effects of his

orgasm, but she ceases to care because he is staying.

* * *

When they are in bed together later, they don't touch for the longest time, they both keep to their respective sides. She knows that he is not asleep.

She can see his fingers tapping silently on his stomach. She sits up and he turns to look at her. She pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it onto the

floor. She regrets that she didn't demand that he expose his skin to her earlier. She loves the feeling of their skins against one another. He sits up

against the headboard and takes off his shirt as well. They stare at each other for minutes on end until he pushes her to lie on her back. He moves

over her and settles in for long, deep kisses. She thinks that he is ready for another round but when she reaches for him he stops her. They just

continue kissing.

She wonders why he is doing this.

Guilt for forcing himself on her earlier? The need to deeply connect with another being? Every so often he makes little noises, small whimpers of

pleasure. She is smiling against his mouth, enamored with the connection. His body is heavy and she loves the way it feels to be pinned underneath

him, however, she can't sleep that way. She can tell that he is getting tired. His kisses become less and less focused. She pushes on his chest until he

is on his side next to her. His eyes are already fluttering closed. She places a last kiss on the underside of his jaw and succumbs to sleep.

* * *

When she awakes the next morning he is gone. She hadn't really expected him to stay. She rolls out of bed and heads into the bathroom to shower.

At work, they have no patient.

After lunch she is alone in his office doing paperwork.

She notices a single folded piece of paper on top of some charts that wasn't there when she left on her lunch break. Curious, she unfolds the paper to

see a single word.

Enigma

She smiles. His label for their relationship: inexplicable, perplexing, secret.

_Pretty good_

She was thinking more along the lines of affliction.


	6. Peaks and Valleys

Thoughts

Thoughts

I walk the line of the disappointed

I celebrate when I'm in pain

My heart and mine can be disjointed

I recognize that I am damaged

I sympathize that you are too

-Sick Puppies

Peaks and Valleys

She is an attractive woman.

She knows the way men look at her.

Since her husband died and before this thing with House, she has had many chances to build a comfortable, pleasant, life with a number of comfortable,

pleasant, men.

If only she wanted that.

She tried the whole marriage with a comfortable love thing before.

Look how that turned out.

She wants him.

She doesn't want faked neighborhood get-togethers; she doesn't want sweet, comfortable, content, love. She doesn't want the numbness that goes

along with catering to some random man that will bore her. Whenever she is out on the last-first date with any of these men, she sees a flat plain, boring.

With him there is turbulence. There is change.

She knows that this is not a healthy ideal.

She knows that with him there will be suffering. There will be lows; but with these lows there will be highs.

Intense highs.

She is willing to go through the lows because she knows the highs will be amazing.

It has been weeks since their last encounter. She wants nothing more than a repeat of their last night together. The way he kissed her, so completely

and so satisfyingly. She knows that he cares for her.

Maybe even loves her.

She knows what she feels for him is love.

Sometimes she feels like the world is spiting her. It's as if somehow the fates have decided that they will play some cruel trick on her, by putting this man

before her yet not allowing her to possess him. She feels like a wide eyed child on Christmas Day, unwrapping all the pretty packages, only to have the

contents ripped away.

* * *

It is fall now and New Jersey is painted in various shades of red, yellow, and orange. For some reason fall always makes her think of couples.

Trench-coats and scarves walking hand in hand down leaf-covered streets.

She knows that he is not the hand-holding type. Neither is she really, but it is a nice idea to hold onto.

She doesn't tell any of her friends about him. They won't understand it. She isn't really close with any of her "friends" anyway.

Her work consumes her, as does House. Besides, they would only try to set her up with one of their husbands' colleagues or that guy from the gym, and

their date would be pleasant, and he would be courteous, and she would be bored.

However, no matter how much she buries herself in her work, and no matter how much she alienates her old friends, she knows that she needs to

connect with people outside the circle of the hospital. So when her friend calls, she forces herself out for coffee. Low and behold, when she shows up at

the decided upon destination, her friend has brought along a man meant for her. Cameron contemplates whether or not to book it to the nearest exit and

cancel from her cell phone around the block, but it is too late because they have already spotted her and have waved her over to their table. Just as she

suspected he is an attractive man in his mid-thirties, probably a lawyer, or invest banker or something equally bland, he dresses well, and it is obvious he

finds her attractive, but though his big brown bambi eyes would have most women fawning, she can only think about how much they pale in comparison

to the damaged blue ones she has come to crave. When her friend excuses herself, for what Cameron will later refer to as the longest bathroom trip in

the history of time, it is just them alone and Cameron inwardly groans at how obviously premeditated this whole meeting is. Investment banker man

leans in further over the small café table and she can't help but lean back in her chair to make up for the violation of her personal space. Six months ago

she would have feigned interest in his well orchestrated retirement portfolio just to be nice, but now his presence alone is annoying her. As he continues

to blather on about himself Cameron drifts further and further away from the conversation.

Of course she is thinking about House.

She thinks about his scotch-flavored kisses, the way he feels inside her, and his incredible mind, and she suddenly cannot stand to be around investment

banker man for another second.

"I'm sorry" she says standing from the table, "I'm sure you are a very nice man who is very financially secure, but" she pauses trying to find the words,

"I'm actually seeing someone."

_Not a complete lie_- she tells herself.

He frowns at her, "But your friend said that you-"

She cuts him off before he can finish, "She was mistaken."

And with that she leaves the coffee shop anticipating an angry voicemail and one less Christmas card this year, but she doesn't care because she is going

to see him.

* * *

When she arrives at his door about twenty minutes later, she is slightly apprehensive about actually knocking. What if Wilson is over or what if he is busy

doing something and doesn't want to be interrupted?

_Oh what the hell_- she thinks

She knocks confidently and after a customary period of time the door opens. He looks a little surprised to see her, but lets her in anyway. As she enters

she looks around the room. The T.V. is on, but there is only one glass of scotch on the coffee table and no visible signs of a visitor. Confident that they

are alone, she walks up to him and kisses him like it is an everyday occurrence. He stands still, confused by her actions. She takes off her coat and hangs

it on the rack by the front door. She goes back to him, intent on coaxing him out of his complacent state. She runs her hands up his chest and fastens

them around his neck, dragging him down so she can reach his lips. He is still unresponsive, but gradually she feels him purse his lips and kiss back.

He is an excellent kisser.

She would have thought that he wouldn't like such an intimate gesture, but it is an area in which he excels. She figures that this is his way of

communicating. She breaks away from him and starts walking towards his bedroom undressing as she goes. She is a little nervous until she hears the

familiar shuffle of him following without the aid of his cane. When he meets her in his bedroom she is standing at the foot of the bed waiting. She walks

over and starts undoing his belt.

"What are you doing?" He asks because he is wondering where this newfound confidence is coming from.

"Isn't it kind of obvious?" She tries some of his sarcasm on for size and starts working on the buttons of his shirt.

He rolls his eyes, "Obviously I know what you're doing, I guess I should clarify. Why are you doing this?"

"Because" she kisses him on his neck, "I was just set up on a sort of blind date with boring investment banker guy."

"Who's boring investment banker guy?" House asks while assisting her in the removal of his shirt.

"I don't remember his name, what I do remember though," she leans forward to whisper in his ear while sending her hand down into his boxers, "is

thinking about the way you feel inside me."

At this he groans and she can feel him growing in her palm. They make their way to the bed and she straddles his hips. He is sitting up, his arms

encompassing her small body completely. His hands are between her shoulder blades, and he is sucking on the skin of her neck, no doubt leaving a mark.

She pushes on his shoulders until he is lying flat on his back beneath her. Slowly she lowers herself onto his erection. She has to bite her lip and screw

her eyes shut because his stare is too much. He manages to keep his eyes on her, but he has to fist his hands in the sheets. She starts to move above

him, in a slow satisfying rhythm. He groans loudly at her pace. He can barely control his body now; there is no way he will be able to hold out with this

rhythm. His hands move to her hips in an attempt to hasten their movements, but she grabs them and moves them to her breasts instead.

This is bliss. This is what she lives for. This is one of the essential things that investment banker man lacks. She leans down and he cranes his neck to kiss

her. She loves the way he kisses during sex. It is nd almost uncomfortably intimate all at once. One of his hands is pressing on her lower back, and the

other is tangled in her hair, holding back the strands so that he can kiss her. She knows that he is close, and she knows that he needs her to climax so

that he can finally let himself go, so she leans back to allow him to touch her. However, as his hand is making its way down her lower abdomen, the shrill

ringing of his phone surprises her and she instantly tenses around him. He moans loudly at this feeling.

"You really need to stop that." He says as he props himself up on his elbows to read the caller id.

"Are you going to answer it?" She runs her fingers across his belly button.

"I wasn't planning to. I think we're kind of busy." He says sitting up all the way and rubbing his chin across her collarbone. He runs his hands up and down her back willing her to relax. He raises his hips to try and resume their previous activities, but she continues to question him.

"What if it's the hospital? What if it's an emergency?" She inadvertently clenches around him again.

"Ah," he says through gritted teeth, "it's not the hospital."

"Then who is it?" She asks, this time she purposely flexes her inner muscles loving his helpless reaction.

"Stop or I'm going to finish without you." She smiles at his expression of agony and decides to spare him any more pain. She takes his hand and puts two

of his fingers into her mouth. Then she brings his hand down to where they are joined and makes him touch her.

"Oh fuck." He says because he can't hold out any longer and comes.

She hums, loving the feeling of him emptying himself inside her, and she comes seconds later. After she moves off him, they lie next to each other breathing heavily.

"Seriously," she asks "who was it?"

"The hospital."

"House!" she reaches over smacks his shoulder.

"What?" He has a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She finds the playful glint in his eyes adorable. She sees flashes of a little boy shining

through and now she is thinking about House and babies and little boys with blue eyes and this is dangerous territory for her. His voice brings her back.

"We have no patient, so if they were calling because we got a new patient, then the patient would have to be stable enough for the ER to determine that

they need my help, and if they are stable enough for that, then they can stand to wait an extra five minutes and let me finish."

Cameron rolls her eyes, but she knows that he is probably right.

He is almost always right.

"So, you came over here because you were out with some Wall Street bastard,"

"Investment banker," she corrects.

"Whatever, and discovered that he was perfectly normal and not at all broken, and so you lost interest and _needed_ to come fuck me."

She turns on her side and pretends like his words don't hurt at all. She wants to tell him

_No, I came because I want you to care that other men want me, but I want you._

She sits up on the edge of the bed and runs her hands through her hair.

"Aw, come on Cameron."

"What?" She asks harshly, looking over her shoulder at him relaxing in his bed.

"Don't tell me you're mad."

She is mad. She is mad that he is a hypocritical son of a bitch, and she hates that even though she is pissed at what he said, he is still right about her.

"No, I get it. You get to use me when you can't solve your damn puzzle, and that's not fucked up at all, but when I come around it's a psych case."

He looks away and starts picking at the comforter. He knows that it must appear that way to her. She scoffs at his inability to meet her eyes and starts

grabbing her clothes. She has everything collected except her sweater, which she kind of needs to leave, but he has it in his hands. She stands in front

of him with her hands out expectantly. He furrows his brow and reaches out to run his thumb over her exposed hipbone. She allows him to continue

because he looks like he is trying to say something important and anyway it feels good.

"I know I'm hurting you."

_Yet you continue to do it_

He looks like he is about to say something else, but instead he just holds up the sweater for her to take. She slips it over her head and shuffles away

from between his knees. As soon as she leaves his bedroom, House flops back onto his bed and scrubs his hands over his face.

She walks home.

It is only early evening, but the fall air is crisp and it clears her mind.

She realizes that he was right.

He is always right.

Nothing good can come of this.

* * *

Please review! I fixed the formatting!


	7. Most People

I don't care

No I wouldn't dare

To fix the twist in you

-Sick Puppies

Most People

It's funny how people are.

Most people have enlightened self interest. They do what they have to do to get ahead; they do what is best for them. They build themselves up. They strive for happiness

and contentment; never being satisfied.

He is not like this.

He is never content except in that he is satisfied with his discontentment.

Though his actions may seem self centered there is always an ulterior motive. He is never without reason. Most people want to be happy, something he seems to be

incapable of.

Then, she considers, he is not most people.

She has changed.

Recently she has become bolder, more cynical. She thinks it has to be him.

His doing.

Alone he is narcissistic and self-absorbed. Alone she is benevolent and self-effacing.

Together they are self-destructive.

Of the dozen or so times they have slept together, it is always the same; rough, emotionally-fueled, mind-gutting, sex.

She knows it is not healthy to be so invested in this man and so disconnected at the same time. Most people have internal instincts for self preservation; apparently hers are

weak. Most people don't like getting hurt.

_It's almost like he wants to be in pain_

He is an addict.

Maybe she is too.

She thought that after awhile the awkwardness would dissipate, but even now as he gathers his things to leave, she still feels the cold distance between them. She

wonders how it is possible to have such deep, passionate sex with this man and still be unable to converse naturally with him.

He shrugs on his motorcycle jacket as she sits in her bed, holding the white sheet around herself. She looks down at the fresh bite mark on her shoulder and fingers the

edges of the imprint his teeth made. He sees her looking at it,

"Sorry about you shoulder."

He says it in a way so that he doesn't sound sorry at all. In fact, she thinks he is rather proud of it, the way he stares at the indentation in her flesh.

"Sorry about your leg."

She deadpans at him. He smiles but only for a brief second. She thinks that because he is so unhappy, the rarity of his smiles and laughs make them all the more grand.

"Ha, I knew these were just pity fucks."

It's his attempt at a joke and she smiles faintly at him.

She wants him to stay. She wants him to hold her and kiss again. While rough, mind-gutting, sex satisfies her libido, it doesn't satisfy her neediness. She wants him to

display some of the tenderness and gentleness she knows he is capable of.

_He won't let me in again_

With the sheet still wrapped around her, she stands from the bed and goes over to the window in her bedroom and looks out onto the street.

Today the sky is a dull gray. No rain, but the pressing gray clouds look threatening. She fingers the almost sheer, white, lace of her curtains. They are light and delicate,

something like herself. She thought she would never be the one to end it, she loves him too much, but her masochism is an overwhelming burden.

He is draining her in every sense.

The pressures of trying to impress him at work, and appease him in bed have taken over every other avenue of her life.

She has alienated all her friends for him.

She has forfeited any chance of a normal relationship with another man because her thoughts will always be tainted by the way he feels.

She has even considered sacrificing her career to stay under his employ, to be near to him.

It has to end.

It has to end because she knows she will do anything for this man.

Even if it means losing herself.

Her back is to him but she can hear him fiddling with the cumbersome zipper of his jacket.

"We can't do this anymore."

The zipper stops.

Part of her wants to grab the words and shove them back down her throat, but the other part of her lets them hang in the air like moisture on a muggy, humid, summer

afternoon. She can hear him shuffling towards her. The sheet is draped low on her back so that her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine are exposed. She can feel

when he is only inches away. She cannot decipher what his reaction will be. He scoops the loose curls of her hair aside, and when the pads of his fingertips run between her

shoulders and over her skin, following the path of her vertebrae, she feels goose bumps spread over her body as if she had opened her bedroom window and let in the cool

night air. He leans over and kisses the bite mark on her bare shoulder. After a moment or two, he still doesn't pull away. She turns towards him with a look on her face that

reads a mixture of sadness, annoyance, arousal, and pain. There is no need for words, they would just get lost in translation. He stares at her; she can tell he knows why

she thinks she needs to end it. He kisses her. Hand on her chin, he kisses her softly. There is no fervent lust behind this kiss; the blatant eroticism that usually occurs when

they kiss is absent now. When he breaks away from her he lets his finger trail down her throat, across her chest, and then it comes to rest on her hand that is holding the

sheet to her body. His fingers wrap around her smaller ones, and when he pulls slightly, she sheet falls to the floor. She is exposed to him, the gray light from outside

creating an eerie glow around her profile. He touches her. He touches her like he has never seen her before, like he hasn't had her a dozen times. She trembles under his

touch. She thinks it is one of the most intimate experiences of her life. He pushes her towards the bed and her feet follow his direction of their own volition.

She lies flat on her back while he looms above her. She watches as he takes off his jacket, then his shirt, then his pants, and she is powerless to stop him. She thinks this

may be a prelude to sex, but as he lies on top of her he just looks down at her with his sad eyes, lowers his head to the crook of her neck, and breathes. His body is heavy

and warm. She has always loved the way his heated skin warms hers. He holds her. He holds her so completely. She holds the back of his neck, keeping him there. She

knows exactly what he is doing. He is an exceptionally smart man. He knew she was probably starving for intimacy and is giving her just enough now to keep her hanging on.

It's working.

He is manipulating her and she is giving in like she always does because she cannot deny him.

But this feels real. It feels too good, too right, to _not_ be real.

She considers for a moment that he might need the comfort of another human being just as much as she does. This feels so good. She would be willing to put up with all his

faults for moments like this.

_It won't be enough_

These moments would be too few and fleeting. She would be in a constant state of dejection, and just when she is about to break, he would draw her back in. It is his way,

but she knows she can't live her life like that. She plays with the hair at the base of his head while her other hand rubs soothing circles on his back. She whispers in his ear.

"It has to end."

She kisses the shell of his ear, in an attempt to dull her words.

"Why?"

He asks against her neck.

"It's not healthy."

He lifts his head from her neck and squints at her accusingly.

"It wasn't healthy the first 10 times either. What changed?"

She is starting to lose her resolve. She averts his gaze, not wanting to tell him anything.

"You still treat me like-" she stops. She shakes her head. It's not coming out how she wants it to.

"Even after all this; you're still so indifferent towards me."

He is on top of her; holding her, but he is no longer looking at her. Instead, he is staring intently at the dark bruise-like mark he left on her neck a few nights ago.

He responds bitterly,

"What were you expecting?"

He withdraws his arms from around her and leaves their embrace, so that she falls an inch or two and bounces slightly on the mattress. The instant loss of warmth is

astounding to her.

"You know that I can't… you knew."

He is dressing quickly. She gets up, wraps the blanket around herself, walks into her bathroom, and quietly closes the door. She slides down until she is on the floor with her

knees against her chest. When she hears her front door slam she begins to cry.

Now she is free from him. She feels that all the cords that had bound her to him have been cut. But instead of feeling like a weight has been lifted from her, she feels like

another burden has taken its place: loneliness, emptiness.

She should have never said a word. She shouldn't have ruined everything.

* * *

At work the only difference he displays is a heavier limp.

Foreman has resigned.

House has been more miserable than usual and Chase has been toeing the boundary of how much House can take.

She thinks that House's frustrations have manifested as leg pain because his vicodin intake has increased and he can barely walk.

Then he fired Chase. It was inevitable, Chase was being an asshole and House was already on edge.

Oddly, Chase doesn't seem too upset, and Foreman wanted to leave, it seems everyone is moving on.

Why can't she?

Ever since she ended their affair he has treated her no differently. It troubled her; surely something had to have changed. Then, she considers she is probably just another

item on his long list of disappointments. She sees Foreman gathering up his things and House in the next room gritting his teeth and rubbing his leg. She lets worry rest on

her brow for a moment, but then Foreman is hugging her and saying goodbye and she can't see House behind Foreman's big shoulder. When Foreman finally releases her

and she can peer into the adjoined office, House is gone. She was going to give him her resignation letter. She can't take his aloofness any longer. She wishes he would yell

at her, fire her, kiss her, or something. But the slow burn of pent-up emotions and sexual frustration is a painful daily reminder of what happened.

She can't take it anymore.

She decides to go to his home and tell him.

Just like the time before.

When she approaches she hears music.

Slow, sad, melancholy piano.

She thinks for a moment that it might be him playing, but then she hears the static of an old recording and realizes it's an LP.

She knocks on the door but he doesn't answer. This does not surprise her. What does surprise her though, is when she finds the door unlocked. With a cautious hand, she

pushes the door open.

"House?"

No answer.

She peers over the back of the couch and sees him lying there, long limbs hanging over the edge of the sofa. She breathes a sigh of relief.

Then she sees the syringe.

She rushes around the couch to read the vial on the coffee table.

Morphine.

_Oh god_

"House!"

She yells his name, and slaps his face, trying to wake him up, hoping he wasn't blinded by too much pain when administering the dosage. His eyes flutter open.

"House, what did you do? How much did you take?"

She asks, while frantically checking his pulse. His reply is quiet and his voice is raspy,

"Enough to forget for a little while."

She thinks he must be coming out of it because his eyes are completely open now and trying to focus on her face.

"Why morphine? What happened to your vicodin?"

She holds his chin in her hand to make him understand what she is saying.

"It's not enough."

"Then you need to find another way!"

She is so angry.

She is angry at him and at herself.

She was so worried he was dead.

Most people wouldn't put up with a narcissistic drug attic.

Most people wouldn't keep caring after he has given no reason to.

But she is not most people.

She hears him moan in pain, the effects of the drug slowly waning out of his system. She brings him a glass of water and helps him drink it. She goes to his bedroom and

finds a blanket to drape over him. As she stands to leave he grabs her hand.

"Why did you come here?" He asks.

"It's not important now."

Which is true. She bends down so that she is kneeling on the floor with him again. She runs her hand through his hair and she can't help but feel sorry for him.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself if that's what you think."

"I don't think that." He moves over a little bit so that she can sit on the edge of the sofa next to him. She waits for him to talk because she can feel the words coming.

"I don't want to be in pain anymore."

What does she say to that?

_You can't always get what you want_

She doesn't know what to say, so she reverts back to what they do best, physicality.

She runs her hands up and down his chest. She rubs his neck in what she hopes are soothing touches. When he lets out a little groan, she smiles.

"You know what would make me feel better?"

_Anything…_

She inclines her head in an inquisitive manner.

"Sex."

She laughs and he smiles faintly, his eyes closed. Somehow the awkwardness is minimal. There is a comfort here, with him in his home.

"I'm serious. The endorphins from an orgasm would do wonders for my leg."

Against her better judgment she leans forward and kisses him. When she breaks away she smirks at him.

He scrunches his face up as if he is calculating something in his head and says,

"That'll do."

She laughs again

"For now."

review please!


	8. Yes No Maybe

For you I keep my legs apart

And forget about my tainted heart

But don't strain yourself for me

Don't break yourself for me

Don't lose your selfish ways for me

-Lykke Li

Yes No Maybe

She is nervous.

She left her resignation letter on his desk.

What happened at his place last night changed nothing. She still gives in to him, gives him whatever he wants. He still pulls her back and forth, keeping her in limbo.

She couldn't decide whether or not she should give him her resignation. She kept changing her mind. Part of her wanted to work alone with him, be the sole member of his

team, but the other, more rational part of her, the part of her that put the resignation letter on his desk, knew it wouldn't be healthy. She can't change her mind about this.

She can't lose her resolve when it comes to her job.

Aside from her pseudo- relationship with him, she has her career.

That's it.

Even she isn't naïve enough to screw both things up.

There was no way he could miss the letter. She placed it carefully on top of all his papers, right next to his computer and ipod. He would have to see it as he packed his

things up for the night. She purposely skipped out from work a few minutes early in order to avoid his wrath.

* * *

She sits at home.

Alone.

She nurses a glass of wine.

She waits because she knows he is coming.

He can never just let things be.

She looks around her apartment. The sunshine yellow walls initially softened the décor and matched her sunny disposition, but lately she has felt anything but sunny on the

inside. There are no loving family photos hung, no homey clutter, no one to share the space with. She realizes that she is truly lonely. She hears a knock and her front door,

and she knows it's him.

"I'm starting to wonder if this is some sort of trend."

She opens the door to see him leering there, her resignation letter in his left hand, while he looks at her in that way. Dropping his head and looking up at her from under his

eyes.

"So what finally did me in?"

He enters her home and closes the door behind him. She gives him a confused look,

"Were you just following Foreman's lead, or was it when I fired Chase? Maybe…what happened last night?" He clarifies.

"How's your leg?" She asks because she needs time to formulate her answer, and because she worries.

"It hurts, you're avoiding."

Of course he would see right through that. She exhales loudly and walks into her kitchen. He follows.

"It's time for me to move on." She dumps the wine down the drain.

"Bullshit."

"House, you knew I couldn't work for you forever." She leans against the countertop and averts his gaze.

"Well forever can end in three months when your fellowship is up." He leans his cane against the counter and limps closer to her.

"What does it matter to you? You were going to have to hire two new people anyway, just hire one more."

He walks up to her and stands so close that she is trapped into looking up at him.

"It's because we're sleeping together isn't it?"

She rolls her eyes.

"We're not sleeping together."

She pushes on his arm and he straightens up to let her escape. She wanders around her kitchen and he pursues her.

"But we were, and you're afraid that if we keep working together, we'll keep sleeping together,"

"No."

_Yes…_

"And you don't want us to keep sleeping together because…"

_Because I don't want to lose everything_

"Because you said it yourself, nothing good could come of it."

"Nothing except good sex…great sex actually. Who knew you'd be so rough?"

"House, I just need a change, that's all."

He is exhausting.

"What are you going to do?"

She starts walking back towards the front door, hoping he'll take the hint and leave.

"Cuddy offered me a position in the ER."

He smirks.

"So you want a change, and that change is what? Going two floors down? Boring yourself into complacency?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. If you don't sign my resignation letter, I'll take it to Cuddy."

He tosses it onto the coffee table.

"If I sign it can we have sex?"

"No."

_Maybe…_

"You know we're good."

He pops a couple pills.

"Did you just take three?" She asks.

"My leg hurts."

She breaks a little and fingers one of the buttons on his shirt.

"Well your liver is going to hurt even more."

"I'm old."

"You're not that old."

He gives her that smile. That little smirk thing that drives her crazy. Just as he dips his head slightly to kiss her,

"I think you should leave."

He sighs and returns to his full height. He reaches out and moves her shirt to the side to expose his bite mark on her shoulder.

"Does that still hurt?"

"A little." She replies. She opens her front door as a silent queue for him to leave.

"You won't be happy in the ER." He says as he stands on the threshold of her apartment

"Goodbye House."

She pushes him out the rest of the way and closes the door with as much non-chalance and she can muster.

This was going to be harder than she thought.

* * *

The ER is a change.

It is fast-paced, sometimes boring, sometimes not.

The shifts are grueling, but she has to admit, without him there is a certain calm to her demeanor. There is a sort of peace that comes with knowing she won't be belittled

and in a constant state of arousal the whole day.

Things are easier, which is why she hates that after only a week she is already pining for him.

Why does she do this?

Why does she complicate herself?

She has seen him in passing, and oddly he has respected the distance she put between them.

He is probably preoccupied with his ridiculous little game.

Leave it to him to make hiring a new team a competition. It's bad enough the way he 'eliminates' them, but what makes it even worse is that they follow her around asking

her questions.

Today is a slow afternoon.

She has just finished stitching up a guy's hand. She finishes the chart and snaps off her gloves, but as she approaches the nurses' station, she notices a distinct pair of Nike

shocks lounging on the counter.

"House." She calls his name.

And then his face appears from behind a magazine.

Sexy as ever.

_Oh god._

"What are you doing here?" She tries to sound annoyed, but inside her heart quickens its pace.

"Waiting for you. Come on you, me, lunch, now."

She looks at the clock and then back at him warily. It's nearly three o'clock, there's no way he hasn't eaten already.

He makes a face.

"I'll buy."

* * *

She should have ignored him.

She should have said no.

She knew, _she knew_ something was off, but she did was she always does.

She should have just said no. Maybe if she had, then she wouldn't be up against a wall in a hospital closet, holding the back of his head and trying not to scream, and maybe

he wouldn't be latched onto her neck, thrusting his fingers in a spasmodic matter, eliciting quiet grunts from himself and barely audible cries from her. If she had said no, then

maybe she wouldn't be squeezing her eyes shut as she orgasms. She closes her eyes because she knows he always watches her come face, and if she meets his stare in

this moment she will be reduced to nothing. When he withdraws his fingers she slides down the wall a couple inches. They just stand there silently not knowing what to say

to each other. She pulls back the hair that came loose during their activities.

"We shouldn't have done that."

He shrugs while cleaning his fingers with a piece of gauze.

She looks for a means of escape but she realizes he is leaning against the door, blocking her way out. When she reaches for the handle he presses his back against the

door, and holds the handle so she cannot get out.

"You want this," he accuses, "otherwise you would never have agreed to lunch with me."

"How was I supposed to know lunch would end up like this?" She asks while straightening her scrubs.

"You can't honestly be that naïve, you knew I had an angle the moment I came to the ER, and you came with me anyway."

Why does he have to be so damn smart?

She attempts to throw it back in his face.

"You're the one that wants this. You're the one that keeps showing up, you're the one who keeps this thing going. Admit it. It was more than just sex."

He looks past her shoulder and she hits his arm to make him look at her again.

"Admit it."

Here they both are, in a closet, trying to fix, start, and end a non-existent relationship.

She isn't sure exactly how long it takes him to respond, but it feels like an eternity.

"It was more than just sex."

As he says it, she closes her eyes and feels like a giant weight has been lifted from her.

Just him saying the words is a kind of catharsis.

"So, what now?" She asks because she is thoroughly confused about where they stand.

"Lunch?"


	9. Decisions Decisions

You're what I want

Nothing close to what I need

I breathe you in

Suit yourself, lose myself

-Sneaker Pimps

Decisions Decisions

She has decided something.

She has decided to live in the now.

Fuck what is good for her.

She will do what she pleases, what feels good.

He feels good.

Sometimes his jabs and insults don't sound good.

Sometimes the pain etched on his face doesn't look good, but he always, _always _feels good.

When he admitted that their affair had meant more to him than just sex, it was as if a cloud had been lifted.

There was a certain inertia that followed.

She had never felt as free as she had in that moment.

No more pushing.

She is done trying to convince him that what they could have is worth it.

She knows he wants something.

If he wants to talk she will listen.

If he wants to be together she will gladly accept.

If he wants to fuck she will spread for him, but she is done trying to sway him.

Persuade him.

* * *

She decided some changes were in order.

She dyed her hair.

The auburn reminds her too much of who she used to be.

She bought new linens.

The old ones were tainted with their hedonistic liaisons.

Although she continues to work in the ER, she begins looking for a different job. Hospitals, doctors, departments, she has compiled a list of possible employers.

Some in Princeton, some not.

It is a welcome distraction to think about things other than him. She still doesn't know where they stand. After their tryst in the closet he escaped back to diagnostics and

she returned to the ER. They proceeded to expertly dodge each other for the next week. So she was really surprised when she opened her apartment door only to trip over

a familiar pair of converse allstars. He is settled on her couch, feet up, drink in one hand, remote in the other. Even in her state of shock, she realizes she wouldn't mind

seeing this upon entering her home on a daily basis.

"House." Her tone is an accusation.

His head rolls over the back of the couch to see who is calling him.

_Who else would it be?_

"Woah," he says in reference to her hair, "turn your love light on."

_Great, hooker jokes already._

"How did you get in here?" She asks because she is wondering how secure her apartment security really is.

He answers plainly, "a key."

As if he senses her eye roll, he continues.

"Really Cameron, you keep your spare key under the doormat?"

_I apologize for my meager mind_

"Why are you here?" She finds it doubtful that he would willingly subject himself to an awkward situation. After a long silence,

"I wanted to see you." She is taken aback by the bluntness of this statement. A brief glimpse of an unveiled, unguarded moment from this man is something to be explored.

"Why?"

He responds with a faux 'duh' look

"Even I can't explain the phenomenon of subconscious thought."

And the veil slides effortlessly back into place.

She scoffs.

"What's your real reason for breaking in?"

"Well, it's not really breaking in if you have a key."

She turns from his figure to grab the knob, swinging her front door open wide. She gives him a simple ultimatum.

_Give it up or get out_

With a sigh he sets his glass on the coffee table and rises from the couch.

"What is this?" He holds a piece of stationary in his hand.

Her list of future job prospects.

Suddenly she doesn't feel so brave.

She looks away, at anything but him. She looks down at her hand that still holds the handle of the gaping door. He walks over to her, and before she realizes it, he has a hand pressed

against the door and is closing it slowly. When the latch clicks, her back is flat against it, she is held in place by his stare.

"Now, I've never been good at directions, but I'm pretty sure Cedar-Sinai isn't in Jersey."

She stammers a little, "I'm just keeping my options open."

He looks down his nose at her, "I was right wasn't I?"

She gives him a confused look.

"About working in the ER. You hate it."

"I don't hate it."

"Then why this?" he says holding up the paper.

"I told you-" She starts but he cuts her off.

"You're lying."

She tries to turn away but his arm is still on the door, blocking her path.

"You're running."

_We have a winner._

"Is it because of me?"

_Yes_

"Partially."

His eyes are bright.

She knows that he finds this immensely amusing.

This interrogation is a kind of twisted fun for him.

She has gotten better at playing his little games, but he is almost always two moves ahead.

"You're the one who ended it."

He fingers a lock of hair that is resting near her collarbone.

She sighs, "I didn't want to."

"Then why did you?"

"Because you were exhausting."

She sees the twitch of his mouth as a smirk threatens to spring forth.

"Physically and emotionally. I'm not some play thing that you can use and then dispose of as you please. You think I didn't notice what you were doing?"

He looks away.

"You were testing me. You would see just how far my tether would stretch, and when I was on the verge of breaking, you'd reign me back in."

She is so tired of this.

She closes her eyes and bangs the back of her head against the door in frustration.

A long silence stretches out between them. She is about to push herself off the door when he speaks,

"I'm not good at this."

She opens her eyes to see what she thinks is genuine hurt in his. She can feel an admission coming so she bites her tongue.

"I'll say the wrong thing, or I'll say nothing, and you'll start to resent me. We'll stop having sex, stop talking, and it will end."

_Stacy_- she thinks.

He rubs his brow and she understands how difficult that must have been for him to say.

It occurs to her that he must care for her and set her apart from other women if he is comparing what they have to what he had with Stacy.

"I'm not her."

He nods.

"If I-" he starts and stops, "If we make a go of this," he motions between the two of them, "Will you stay?"

A small smile graces her features. How long has she waited for this moment?

_Three goddamn years. _

Her eyes close and she leans heavily against the door, contented.

Then she feels his lips on the corner of her mouth. Soft, almost like he is afraid she will push him away at any moment.

She puts a hand on either side of his face and runs her thumb over his bottom lip before bringing his mouth to hers with more force.

He leans his body into hers and she sighs against his mouth at the feeling.

It feels like they haven't touched in so long.

She pushes at the heavy fabric of his motorcycle jacket and it falls to the floor in a heap. He pulls away from her and she knows it is because he can't do this standing up.

They walk down the hallway to her bedroom. They stand before the bed with a foot of space between them. He starts on the buttons of his shirt. She takes this as her cue

to undress as well. She pulls her top over her head. Next he lifts his t-shirt, tossing it over his shoulder, and her pants end up on the chair in the corner of the room.

She closes the distance between them and opens his belt.

The only sound is the clinking of his buckle, the popping of his button, and the zipping of his fly.

He pulls the straps of her bra down her shoulders and she reaches around to unclasp it.

She lies in the middle of her bed.

She knows he is watching, and the anticipation alone is a turn-on.

She doesn't have to wait long to feel his heated skin against hers.

He continues with his teasingly soft kisses, one of his hands is tangled in her hair, while the other burns a trail over her breast and down her ribcage.

She holds his neck and she can feel the blood coursing through the large veins underneath her fingertips.

She tries to deepen the kisses but each time she does, he pulls back a little, a mischievous look on his face.

However, when she strokes him a few times, the smirk is wiped away.

No more foreplay.

She draws her legs up at his sides and he eases into her.

He says something, but it is muffled when he lowers his head to her shoulder.

He doesn't move for several moments, and she takes in simply being filled with him.

When he begins to move inside her with slow, deep, strokes, she lets out small gasps.

She thinks he may actually be making love to her.

At this pace, the tension is a slow burn.

The build up is driving her to the edge.

He is kissing her again, swallowing the noises she makes.

And suddenly she is coming, the intensity heightened by his recent absence, and the fact that for once she meets his eyes as she comes.

She has never seen him in this moment and she thinks it is the most intense experience of her life.

When they lie down to sleep together later in the evening, she takes solace in the fact that he will be there when she wakes.


	10. The Call

You ought to know just what you're in for

I won't ever be

The things you want from me

I can try but I know better

-Plus/minus

The Call

She is being awakened.

She feels the dip of the mattress next to her curled up legs and a gentle hand shaking her shoulder softly.

"I'm going to work now."

She squints an eye over to the digital clock on her nightstand.

9:30.

"Okay"

He gives her one last cursory glance before pushing himself off the bed and out her door.

She succumbs to sleep again.

When she awakes for the second time she decides that it's time to get up. As she walks into her bathroom, she detects a faint layer of moisture lingering in the air, and a

barely visible film of steam covering the mirror above the sink.

He showered in her apartment.

Curious, she continues on to the kitchen.

She sees a used bowl and spoon placed in the sink.

He ate in her apartment.

There is half a pot of coffee waiting for her and the morning paper is spread out on her breakfast nook table.

She is left gaping in the middle of her kitchen.

* * *

She is smiling.

She is stitching a gaping flesh wound and she is smiling.

People in the ER must think she has finally lost it.

She is literally giddy.

By the time lunch rolls around she is significantly less giddy. Four patients with four different types of seeping STDs will do that to you. She decides to head up to diagnostics

and see what House is doing. Maybe he needs her input on a case. She rounds the corner expecting to see the new team huddled around the glass table, with House

standing at the white board; however, the conference room is empty. She looks into the adjoining office to see House talking on the phone with someone.

He looks distinctly unhappy.

She enters his office, the sound of displaced air alerting him to her presence. He hastily says his goodbyes and hangs up. He looks distracted, far off.

"Everything okay?" She asks because she is curious about his mood.

He responds,

"Yeah, just fine."

She nods, awkwardness is filling the room.

"Want to get lunch?"

He looks at his watch and then back at her.

"I can't," he draws out the words, "something came up. I have to go talk to Wilson."

"Oh okay." She says, stumbling over her words.

He hobbles past her, his hand brushing her elbow on his way out the door.

She can't help her curiosity.

When he is out of sight she goes over to his phone. The display shows the most recent call coming from area code 410.

_410? Who's calling from Baltimore?_

* * *

She is on autopilot the rest of the day.

She is worried.

Something is up.

Later, while she packs her things up in the locker room, her phone beeps.

_Meet me-your place_

Soon she is opening her front door.

She knows he is already inside.

She knows he stole her spare key.

Upon entering she notices the TV is on but muted and a bottle of something is opened and half-empty on the coffee table. He is on her couch, one hand glued to his brow, the

other holding his glass of the something. She drops her bag by the door and moves to sit beside him on the couch.

He looks incredibly sullen.

Something is obviously the matter.

She tucks her legs up underneath her body and waits.

She waits because she knows there is nothing else she can do.

He stares at the glass in his hand. Rolling his wrist, the ice clinks in the tumbler. The sound reverberates in the intensely quiet room.

"My Dad is dead."

He downs the rest of his drink.

Her eyes widen and her mouth forms a silent "oh" with shock. She has no clue what to say, so she refrains from speaking at all.

"My mom called. The funeral is on Sunday."

His mom, area code 410 from Baltimore.

She knows very little of his relationship with his father, but from what little information she has gathered, she does know the situation was volatile.

"Are you going to go?" She tries for nonchalance but her voice wavers.

He shrugs,

"Don't have much choice in the matter. My mom and Wilson are playing tag team on this one."

She nods and stays quiet. He leans forward, places his elbows on his knees and rubs his chin.

"I haven't seen her in over a year." He says in reference to his mother.

She hesitates before asking, fearing his reaction.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

He turns his head to look at her and she registers a look of faint surprise on his face.

_Yeah, I care that much_

He quickly recovers.

"No, it isn't worth your time."

She is disappointed. She wanted him to need her.

_What were you expecting?_

"Okay."

She rubs his back in what she hopes are soothing strokes and not annoying touches. He recognizes what she is doing.

"I'm fine. I hated him, he hated me, he's dead, it's over."

She feels his body tense under her fingertips and she knows he has shut himself off from her.

From everyone.

She withdraws her hand and he stands to leave.

"I'll be gone until Tuesday."

The door closes loudly.

He has left her confused and alone.

Again.

* * *

To compensate for his absence she works.

During the slow hours her mind wanders back to him.

She thinks there has to be more to this story.

Nobody just develops this kind of loathing without reason. The death of his father has to affect him somehow. Just because he can read her every emotion like a book doesn't

mean the roles haven't reversed a little. She knows the death of his father has rattled him more than he is willing to let on.

Not that it matters.

Their conversation in her home the day before reaffirmed the distance he keeps between them.

His lack of need for her.

In her eyes, he made it clear that was an aspect of his life she wouldn't be privy to.

She whittles away the hours until his return.

Tuesday seems so far off.

She can only hope that the funeral will bring some kind of closure and a better mood, even if it was forced upon him. By Sunday Cuddy has sent her home; something about

lack of sleep. She's pretty sure the words 'negligence' and 'liability' were used as well.

Great, now she has two whole days off.

Two days spent worrying about him and whether he'll come back from his dad's funeral, hackles raised, shoving her at arm's length. She considers calling him then quickly

douses that idea.

She meets up with Chase and Foreman. She puts on the 'I'm okay' façade.

They don't know about her and House, no one does.

Oddly, she likes it that way.

There is nobody bothering them, offering their ill-advised advice. Monday night comes and goes with sloth-like pace. She had a few half-assed attempts at reading and

charting, but it would only take a minute or two for her mind to be completely lost to him.

Finally it's Tuesday.

She realizes he didn't specify the time of his return.

Tuesday mid afternoon? 11:59 Tuesday night? She would like to see the end marker of her agony.

She checks her phone obsessively.

_No missed calls_

It is late and there is still no word from him.

She figures he is tired and probably just went straight home and to bed. She is lying in bed wide awake, the repression of unshed tears giving her a headache.

Then she hears something.

The faint jiggling of keys and the lock of her front door sliding open.

Fear shoots through her body until she hears the 'thump' of the rubber point of his cane meeting the hard wood of her floorboards.

It is obvious he is creeping- keeping silent to avoid waking her. Inwardly she is screaming,

_He came to you! He came to you!_

When he reaches her bedroom she calls to him.

"It's okay, I'm not asleep."

He tosses his cane in the general direction of her lounge chair, but he misses and it falls with a loud clatter.

_Although I do have neighbors_

She cannot see him in the darkness but she can hear him undressing.

When he slides into her bed, she refrains from touching him, unable to gauge his mood.

He rolls over and places his head on her chest.

He holds her body, his large, warm, hands extending from her ribcage to the middle of her stomach.

He breathes in deeply and exhales a somewhat shaky breath.

They stay in this position for several minutes.

His voice is vulnerable and sort of muffled by his current location,

"My dad is dead."

One hand plays with the hair at his temple while the other hand is resting on his bicep. She whispers to him,

"I know." She is desperately searching for something to say. "How's your mom?"

"She's alright." She can tell he is uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

"Are you?" She has to ask because it has been killing her for the past three days.

He is quiet.

She feels a rhythm known only to him being tapped out on her stomach. She figured he had simply ignored her question until,

"I am now."

Her mind is racing.

_What does that mean?_

As in I'm okay 'now that I'm here with you.'

Or 'now that I got closure at the funeral.'

Or 'now that he's finally dead.'

There are so many possibilities.

"I hate him."

_There goes the closure idea_

She remembers when he compared her to his father.

'_My dad is just like you.'_

_Glad he thinks so highly of me_

"You can't keep hating a dead person." She says in a quiet voice.

He scoffs,

"Wanna bet?"

He moves away from her and out of their embrace.

She thinks he is angry with her, but then she sees him clutch his leg and wince. She figures his leg must be stiff from the long drive.

"Is there anything I can do?" She asks referring to his leg. He stares at her for a long moment.

It's like he is searching her for the source of her benevolence.

"You could rub it for me I guess."

She moves towards him and straddles the lower half of his marred leg.

She starts to gently knead his thigh, but his hands cover hers, applying more pressure to the wound. After several minutes, he relaxes into the mattress.

"You know," he begins, "I wouldn't be opposed to some light fondling."

She laughs at him, taking this as her cue to stop her massage. She moves up his body until her face is hovering over his. She leans forward and kisses him softly.

"I'm betting you're probably pretty worn out." She moves off of him, her playfulness evident in her attempt to lighten the mood.

He lifts up the sheet and looks down.

"Did you hear that? She just insulted you."

He lays back and looks at her, his eyes mirroring her momentary softness.

She reaches out and touches his chin.

"I'm going to sleep." She says.

He nods.

She turns on her side away from him, but a strong arm pulls her across the empty expanse of bed and up against his body.

He says nothing.

She smiles.

She smiles because in this moment he needs her.


	11. Taste of Distraction

You lead me and I follow

Anything you ask you know I'll do

I get everything I want

When I get part of you

- Nine Inch Nails

Taste of Distraction

She reaches out for him.

But instead of coming into contact with a warm chest, she hits cool sheets.

She knows it's early.

She also knows there are only a few reasons why he would be up at this hour.

Leg- his vicodin isn't on the bedside table.

Mind- he is in between cases, but she supposes his father's death is still lingering.

He left.

She's only mildly disappointed.

Last night he had been intimate with her, and not in the carnally physical sense.

He is probably startled by his own actions.

He needs space. That's fine. She will give him all the space he needs.

_As long as he comes back_

* * *

Work is the same.

The ER is alright, but it's been over a month already and this was never meant to be a permanent thing.

She promised him she would stay.

_Mental note: talk to Cuddy_

As far as she knows, no one knows about them.

She's in no rush to tell anyone.

She likes the secrecy.

It's a little internal rush to think that someone could find them out.

She is careful not to spend increasing amounts of time in diagnostics, but she is also careful to not go less than she did before.

_If we avoid each other people will start to suspect something_

It seems his paranoia has found a new host.

It's well past five, so she knows his fellows will be gone.

She goes to see him.

As she enters his office, he is stuffing an envelope in his jacket pocket.

She sees the tip of the return address, a private laboratory of some kind.

She plops down in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"I want a new job."

He extends his arm in her direction like he's holding an imaginary remote control.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to change the song. I've heard this track before." She rolls her eyes, an ever increasing habit.

"Come work for me." He says as he swivels in his chair.

"You don't see the conflict of interest there?"

"There's only a conflict if I stop seeing you naked, otherwise, I don't see an issue."

She ignores his last comment, sort of thinking out loud,

"I wonder if there's a position in research or something."

He speaks a little louder,

"Come work for me."

"No."

"Why not?" He asks, but he doesn't seem all that interested. This makes her think that he thinks he already knows her answer.

She narrows her eyes at him,

"You think you would be capable of not giving me preferential treatment?"

He scoffs,

"Of course not," he pauses in an exaggerated contemplative manner, "now that I know what your tongue is capable of."

She furiously tries to hide her blush.

"While we're on this subject," he continues, "I haven't felt said tongue's capabilities in quite some time."

His expression is absolutely lecherous.

"Stop trying to change the subject." She says; a hint of exasperation in her voice.

"I offered you my solution." He says.

"I guess I'll just have to talk to Cuddy about a change." She senses the end of their conversation.

He busies himself with packing up his belongings.

"Want to go out for food or something?" His eyes remain fixed on the contents of his backpack.

_Like a date?_

She gives him a quizzical look, "Like a public place?"

"That's generally what _going out_ means."

She is taken aback.

"Uh, yeah sure, you pick the place."

When she sees his smirk, she gulps.

* * *

The bar is smokey.

She thinks she remembers a New Jersey law banning smoking in any public place, but as she surveys _Blues Central, _she determines that the owners aren't too concerned

with health code violations.

It's dark and a little scary.

She would never come here on her own, but this is exactly the kind of place he would love.

He is a few steps ahead. He looks back every couple of moments to make sure she is still following behind obediently.

_Here girl!_

When he finally settles on a booth in the far corner, he can really see how flustered she is.

He smirks. She notices,

"What?"

"You've never been to a place like this, have you?"

She glances around skeptically.

With a wave of his hand he orders their first round of drinks.

It's a shot glass of something clear.

"I'm not sure what I'm more afraid of; the ceiling falling in or one of the regulars 'brushing up' against me."

He leans back against the booth, stretching his legs out on the empty space next to her.

She stares at his chest. She loves the way the top fastened button of his shirt stretches against the fabric when he moves.

"You're the one who said I could pick the place."

He leans his head back, and downs his drink in one gulp, she does the same.

She winces as the bitter liquid slides down her throat.

"I'm here aren't I?" She asks a little annoyed.

"But you don't have to be."

He eyes her up while silently ordering another round, "You just want to appease me because you think I'm still messed up about my father."

She avoids, "What the hell is that?" pointing to her empty shot glass.

He fingers the rim of his used glass and twists up his face trying to come up with an answer.

"The alcoholic equivalent to rocket fuel."

She nods at his somewhat accurate description and downs the next drink.

She's already a little tipsy on account of drinking this moonshinesque beverage on an empty stomach, and anyway she's always been a lightweight.

So she's really thrown off at his next admission.

"My Dad isn't dead."

She squints her eyes at him and her jaw falls open a little in confusion.

"Is this a metaphor that I'm not getting?"

He shoots back another shot and she watches his adams apple bounce, licking her lips.

"He's not my biological father." He shrugs at her look of surprise, "I figured it out when I was twelve."

The letter he was putting in his pocket.

_Private DNA Testing Laboratory_

He just had to know.

She's about to keep asking him questions like, _How the hell did you get the sample?_ when music starts playing.

She can't see the source of the sound from her part of the booth, so she scoots around closer to House.

There are a couple guitar players of different varieties and a harmonica player.

"They have live music?" She says leaning into him to speak into his ear.

"It is called _Blues_ Central."

She's about to return to her side of the booth when she feels his heated hand on her thigh.

She glances down at her leg and his hand and then she sees his wicked grin and shining eyes.

He kisses her.

He kisses her with his hot, wet, inebriated, mouth; his thumb rubbing sensual patterns on the inside of her thigh.

She puts her hand on his chin and pulls his mouth away from hers.

"I know exactly what you are doing."

"What?" He says with playfulness in his voice, like he's daring her to continue.

His face is still close to hers.

"You don't want to talk anymore, so you're moving on to methods of distraction; alcohol," she trails her hand down his chest, "picking a place with loud live music," her

palm comes to rest on the front of his jeans, "using your…expertise in certain areas."

Taking advantage of her diversion, she kisses him softly on the mouth, trying to be dirty, teasing, and tender all at once.

She grabs his full shot glass and downs it.

* * *

They are stumbling.

She isn't sure how he's really capable of stumbling, but she's focused elsewhere.

They are just inside the door of his apartment, and whether it was the alcohol or something else entirely, she has a moment of boldness.

She pushes him away from her; he almost loses his footing but recovers.

She strides towards him and pushes him again until he sits back in a chair.

She claws at his fly.

He is drunk.

He widens his eyes repeatedly trying to focus them on what she is doing.

She's drunk too.

The anticipation of performing this act is causing saliva to pool in her mouth.

She uncovers his erection, running her tongue down the entire length of him.

She frowns a little then takes as much of him into her mouth as she can.

She sucks and moves with a little more force than previous instances.

She is aware of guttural noises he is making, he is obviously enjoying this encounter, however; she is finding that the alcohol is overriding the taste of him in her mouth.

The taste of his skin has become something vital to her.

It is the only thing she wants to taste, and right now this inability cannot be tolerated.

Her mouth leaves him, and he protests,

"Don't stop. What are you doing?" He asks a little breathless.

She stands up and steps out of her clothes.

He is slouched down in the chair, chest heaving, hands firmly gripping the armrests, his mouth is open, and he is staring at her with heavy lidded eyes.

She carefully places herself in his lap.

Her hands curl around his over the armrests.

She probes his mouth with her tongue, but like her own, the alcohol is masking his true taste.

She moves down his jaw.

She decides she likes the sound her teeth make as they scrape over the coarse hairs on the underside of his neck.

She can feel his fingers moving underneath hers, trying to escape her grasp.

She tightens her hold.

The authority she possesses over him in this moment is exhilarating.

He is intoxicated, painfully aroused, and submitting to her.

He is looking up into her eyes, and she keeps his gaze as she lowers her body onto his erection.

If she can't taste him she will feel him.

His eyes close quickly as if he has been hit with a sudden headache.

She moves in somewhat circular motions eliciting the most pleasure from both their bodies.

She is drawing his orgasm out slowly.

She can hear his feet shuffling against the floor as he squirms beneath her.

She knows if he wanted he could overpower her at any moment

Take control.

_If he wanted to_

But he doesn't.

He is willingly succumbing to her.

As she feels herself beginning to orgasm, and as she feels him empty himself into her, she isn't sure why, but this feels like a monumental step in the right direction.


	12. Information Nazi

Try to find out what makes you tick

As I lie down sore and sick

Do you like that?

-Breaking Benjamin

Information Nazi

She is a smart person.

She has always been at the top her class.

She worked hard to get through medical school.

But that's just it, she _works_ hard.

He is smarter.

And it seems as if he doesn't even try.

When she thinks she has a little piece- a scrap- of knowledge that he doesn't know, it turns out he does.

Not only does he know what she knows, he has five more facts waiting in the layaway of his mind.

It frustrates her.

She can never seem to get the upper hand.

The only way to shut him up is to take him to bed, and then she is the one who can't shut up and he has the upper hand.

Again.

It's a never-ending cycle.

She smiles faintly. He is aggravating and satisfying simultaneously.

They are sitting in his apartment. She is reading a magazine and he is watching tv. She lowers her reading and stares at him. He lolls his head in her direction.

"Yes?" He awaits the question he knows is coming from her.

"You know who else had blue eyes like yours?" Her smirk is set firmly in place.

"Who?"

He is really only paying half attention to her. Cops is on.

"Hitler."

He scoffs. She laughs silently to herself.

He continues,

"He also had low sex drive and only one testicle." He winks at her, "We both know I don't have that problem."

He fucking did it again.

She is someone who knows a little about a lot of topics; which is great for impressing people at parties.

She thought he was this way too, except when it comes to medicine, but the more time she spends with him the more she realizes that he is one of those people who knows a lot about

a lot of topics.

"What are you reading?" His eyes still fixed on the tv.

"Uh," she flips to the article's cover page, "Inside the Third Reich."

She continues reading.

"That interests you?" his expression is a little disbelieving.

"I've always been intrigued by the era." She pauses, "How human beings were capable of doing such things to each other."

He rolls his eyes knowingly.

She closes the magazine and tosses it onto the coffee table.

"I should go." She stands.

He has a confused look, "Why?"

"Don't you have a man-date with Wilson?"

"Yeah, so?"

She is standing before him, hands on hips, while he sits there lazily holding a beer.

His shirt has been unbuttoned and the slightly red skin of his chest is drawing her eyes away from his face.

"Don't you think it would be a bit odd for Wilson to come over and see me here?" Try as she might she can't quite mask the nervousness in her voice.

He tilts his head like he is trying to look at her more deeply.

_Oh shit_

A little smile covers his face; total amusement.

"You don't want Wilson to know about us." She looks down at the floor.

He drops his head further to try and meet her eyes.

"You don't want anyone to know."

She attempts to look sure of herself.

"I don't think it's anyone else's business."

Incredulously he starts to reply, "Uh huh."

He stands, but as soon as he reaches his full height, he winces and his hand immediately goes for his thigh.

"Is your leg okay?" She asks as she helps him sit back down in his chair.

"It's never okay."

Glib as always.

"But it's worse than usual, right?"

He shakes his head, "I've just been sitting for too long." He looks at his watch and pops a vicodin, "If you're so intent on keeping our dirty little secret you better get a move on. Wilson is

supposed to be here in 10 minutes."

Worry rests on her brow, but she collects her things and leaves.

* * *

She is waiting for labs to return.

Working in the ER or not, she can't stifle the diagnostic skills he has instilled in her.

She eyed up her newest patient.

She runs a mental checklist in her mind.

_Persistent cough_

_Blood in the stool_

_Unexplained anemia_

_Difficulty swallowing_

_Could be cancer_

She leans on the nurse's station and rubs her temples.

She can feel a headache beginning.

She looks up to see Wilson stalk still and looking bewilderedly back at her.

She smiles uncomfortably at him, wondering why he looks so strange, but as soon as he registers her recognition, he briskly makes a break for the elevators.

That wasn't a random change of direction.

That was calculated avoidance.

That was weird.

The lab technician slaps down a red folder in front of her. She opens it to see the results.

She exhales.

Cancer.

_So much for Wilson's help._

What could she have done to him?

She hasn't spoken to him since last week, and that was just a consult that she thought went smoothly.

There's only one option.

House.

* * *

She is bathed in warm light.

His hand is pressing incessantly on her hip.

His mouth is on hers, not forcefully, but his intent is clear.

He reaches up and turns off the bedside lamp.

She is thrown into darkness.

She should be enjoying this, but her mind is trying to find a way to broach the subject of her encounter with Wilson.

She feels his tongue on her neck and his fingers in her hair.

"Something is up with Wilson."

He ignores her.

He returns to kissing her, and she thinks he just wants to shut her up.

He tries to deepen each kiss but she pulls back slightly after each one.

"He was acting strange towards me today."

She thinks she hears a noncommittal grunt noise from him, but he is busy trying to push her legs further apart.

She is not cooperating at all, distracted by thoughts of Wilson rolling around in her head.

"I think he suspects something."

Finally giving up and dropping his head onto her stomach; he capitulates.

"He more than suspects, he knows."

She instantly tenses.

"What do you mean he knows?"

He rolls off of her, and gets off the bed, trying to avoid the impending wrath as long as possible. When she sees his somewhat guilty expression her eyes widen.

"You told him?"

"I," he extends the sound, "may have said something."

She walks over to him and he shuffles back.

"You knew I didn't want him to know." She points a finger on his chest and now he is standing in the doorway to her bedroom.

"But you told him anyway."

She tries to push him the rest of the way out of the room, but he grabs the molding on the doorframe.

"You chased me for three years, and you didn't care who knew, you practically advertised it."

She crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

"Which makes me wonder why you're so adamant to keep this a secret now."

She is fed up.

"Go home."

His face falls, "Cameron come on."

"Or take the couch, you're not sleeping here."

She closes the door firmly in his face.

_What a bastard_

He is manipulative, annoying, abrasive, and rude, but he isn't generally mean, at least not without a reason.

But she can see no reason for this.

He knew how she felt and he told Wilson anyway.

Only to hurt her.

It has been nearly two hours since she pushed him out when she hears a tentative knock on her bedroom door.

When she opens it she sees him standing there in his pajamas, leaning against the frame with his hair rumpled.

Even after she answered the door, he lets his hand pretend to knock a few extra times.

"Your couch sucks."

She moves to close the door but his hand stops it.

"Why don't you want people to know?"

She sighs.

She doesn't have the energy to concoct another excuse.

She decides to start with the truth.

"Obviously the first time around was a total disaster."

_That brutal date_

"I think it was due to the outside pressures, everybody putting in their opinion, everybody expecting it to fail. I just wanted to avoid that."

He nods, understanding.

She needs to know that he wasn't intentionally cruel.

"Why did you tell Wilson?"

He enters the room fully.

He shrugs, "Because I wanted to."

She gives him a quizzical look.

He continues,

"I know you don't want the secrecy." He comes closer to her so that she cannot escape his gaze. "It's not your nature. Maybe it's exciting for awhile, but it will become a burden."

_That was…candid_

It's funny.

He knows things about her even before she does.

She can feel her anger dissipating slowly. She wants to hold onto it, she wants to keep her resolve when it comes to him, even if only to prove that she can.

"You're quiet." He stoops a little.

He kisses her softly.

"Your couch is lumpy." He kisses her again; she smiles a little against his mouth.

She can't help it.

She supposes she has something akin to Stockholm syndrome.

Any small act of kindness from him warrants devotion.

He is persuasive, coercive, and intense.

And she will never say no.

"You can sleep here." He kisses her again.

As they lay down together later, he reaches over to the pocket of his discarded pants and pops a vicodin.

She thinks he has been taking more than usual, but she can't really be sure.

She is still a little worried.

She doesn't want things to be awkward with Wilson forever.

She turns and rolls into his chest, her hand resting around his shoulder.

"Did you know," he whispers in her ear, "that Hitler supposedly invented the concept of the blow-up doll?"

She laughs against him.

"That cannot be true."

They have a short, comfortable silence.

"Is it weird that we talk about Hitler in bed?"

She laughs.

* * *

a/n: I haven't been happy at all with the last two chapters. They feel a little disjointed or something. I'm hoping this one is a little better. My last semester of high school just started. Thank God. Fixed some errors.


	13. Love Will Do That

I know you're so sad

So sad, you can't cry

But I know you let go

Although you can remember why

-The MDH band

Love Will Do That

She is surprised at herself.

Proud even.

She has yet to blurt out the words that have been painfully stuck in her throat for at least three years.

_I love you_

How she has managed to hang onto them is beyond all reasonable logic.

She wants to say it when he fucks her.

She wants to say it when he lets her put her feet in his lap when they watch TV.

When he makes faces at her through glass corridors in the hospital.

When he laughs and she can see the crinkles around his eyes-which she loves.

She can think of a hundred different occasions when the words have been on the tip of her tongue, but fear always makes her swallow them back down.

Occasions just like this.

It is late morning and she doesn't have to work today.

She has retrieved the morning paper and returned to bed. She is attempting the daily crossword puzzle.

The first five or so she completes with relative ease, but then seven across has her stumped.

_Ten letters for fan-shaped?_

She pokes the pen at her closed mouth. She doesn't see it but he smiles at her look of concentration. He waits a moment to see if she can get it, and then decides to take pity on her.

"It starts with-"

He begins to say until her hand is firmly clamped against his mouth.

"Don't tell me." She removes her hand. She doesn't finish seven across, but instead moves on.

He smirks, she notices.

"I'm skipping it. I'll come back to it at the end."

"Sure."

She knows the next few:

_Urtext_

_Mesclun_

_Pantile_

Twelve down however, presents a problem. A six letter word describing a rainy region.

_Oregon?_

Knowing that this is as far as she will be able to go, with a sigh, she hands the paper to him along with her pen.

He accepts them with a grin.

_Damn the New Jersey Journal and their insane crosswords_

He is lying on his stomach, the pen behind his ear.

Looking at him in her bed, wearing a white cotton t-shirt and a look of repose, she feels her mouth opening and the words forming.

It takes him approximately twenty-five seconds to complete the crossword.

She remains silent.

She hears the paper and a second later the pen hit the floor as he drops them off the bed.

She has rolled on her side away from him.

She feels the bed shifting and a hand lodging itself in the back of her pajama bottoms, he yanks on them and she is pulled across the bed and up against his side.

When she turns to face him, his hand scurries up her top to land on her breast.

She smiles,

"That was subtle."

He kisses her,

"I know what I want."

She's glad he is kissing her now because she is certain she would have let it slip.

Just as she places her leg around his hip, his cell rings.

"Damn." He mutters. He moves off of her.

He reaches over to the bedside table and grabs his phone.

"What?"

She sits up and wraps her arms around his back, her legs stretch around him, fitting along the outside of his.

She listens to his half of the conversation, inferring that he will have to leave.

Unexplained skin necrosis will do that.

He snaps his phone shut, he turns his neck to regard her,

"I gotta go." She lets go of him.

"I figured." She watches him shrug on his jacket, pull on his jeans, grab his cane, and head for the door.

"It's not suspicious that you are wearing the same thing you wore yesterday?"

She asks him with a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. He looks down at his attire and shakes his head.

"Nope, but it is suspicious that I smell," he lifts his sleeve to his nose, "like honey and almond."

She laughs and he closes the door.

There were at least fifteen moments where she felt the need to say 'I love you.'

At least.

She decides she should get up and start the day. It is past eleven after all.

As she makes her way to the bathroom, she picks up the crossword.

Fan-like: flabellate, scratched out in his mannish penmanship.

Rainy region, hyetal.

"Damn."

* * *

The next day at work she pauses before she enters his office.

She sees him hunched over his computer looking like he is concentrating very hard. As soon as she enters he minimizes the window.

_Probably porn_- she thinks.

She sits on a chair in front of his desk and puts her feet up on the table top. He glares and then shoves her feet off.

"Thirteen is dying." He says abruptly.

She looks up, the surprise evident on her face.

"Of what?"

He says it without even blinking, "Huntington's."

She can't help the empathy from spilling forth a little.

It's something like an internal liquid that when her mind deems necessary seeps through her pores and onto the surface.

"Oh god that's horrible."

He props his feet up on the desk.

"Yup, and I need to fire her."

"What! Why?"

He rolls his eyes at what she supposes is her obviously inferior intellect.

He shrugs, "She's not objective anymore."

She cuts in, "I was never objective."

"Yeah, but you were hot."

She tries putting her feet up on the desk again right next to his.

"Thirteen is hot."

He looks at her with wide eyes. Then they shift to the door.

Wilson enters.

It is obviously he is still uncomfortable with the situation.

"Hello," he says to her.

"Hi."

House leans back in his chair obviously entertained by this charade.

Wilson shifts towards House,

"I just came to tell you that your patient's test for non-Hodgkin's lymphoma was positive and that this," he gesticulates between House and Cameron, "is a good thing."

He turns to leave but stops when he reaches the door.

"A very good thing."

Her eyes follow him until he is out of sight.

"What the hell was that?" she asks.

House looks back to her,

"His blessing."

* * *

She is spending the night at his place.

She seems to be doing this with increasing frequency.

She is standing in his bathroom, her face bent over the sink, eyes closed, washing the day off her face.

"There's nothing wrong with you right?"

Startled, she straightens up quickly; sending little rivulets of water flying.

He leans in the doorway with an air of unconcern.

She decides to play his game.

"I'm sure there's plenty wrong with me." She squeezes toothpaste onto her toothbrush.

"Right, I mean besides the over-attachment, passive-aggression, affinity for broken things, and the fact that sometimes you bite too hard."

She narrows her eyes at him.

He continues,

"I mean physically. You're not going to keel over anytime soon are you?"

She stands with her toothbrush poised at her mouth, a confused look on her face.

"House," she starts, "I'm fine." She trails off, completely perplexed by this entire situation.

"Good." A simple nod is all she receives in return.

_Wait, what?_

He limps over to the bed and settles in for the night.

_He doesn't want you to die, how sweet._

She hates the fact that this admission sends her heart reeling.

Love will do that.

* * *

She wakes to the faint sound of music coming from somewhere in his apartment. She rolls over to look at the clock. Three in the morning.

_What the hell?_

She is standing in the archway to the living room, she led herself down the hall quietly, he is not yet aware of her presence.

He is barefooted with a guitar draped across his lap. He is making a seat out of his amp, his eyes are closed, and he looks sort of…happy.

The adoration must be obvious in her eyes.

"Sorry, I don't take requests." He says without even opening his eyes.

She smirks.

_How does he do that?_

"Don't you think it's a little early in the morning for the Stones?"

He continues playing, but he changes to a much softer melody.

If she had to compare the sound to something she would say the tides.

It's dreamlike and flowing and she thinks she should take a recording of this for the juxtaposition alone.

_This_ man playing _this_ song.

She heads toward the kitchen to get herself a glass of water, swaying from side to side slightly from the riff, but when she gets halfway to the kitchen the music abruptly stops.

She frowns, turns.

"Hey, why'd you stop play-"

Her voice trails off when she sees him.

Her heart breaks a little.

He is sitting on the floor now, guitar discarded, his hand kneading his leg.

She thinks she sees tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

She moves closer to him, silently offering her futile help.

He violently shakes his head side to side.

She steps back.

His exhales are uneven.

Sweat is forming on his brow.

She wants to help, but she has no idea what to do.

"Should I get your vicodin?"

He shakes his head again.

"What should I do?"

He looks up at her with bleary eyes.

* * *

He is out cold.

A syringe full of morphine will do that.

Something is wrong.

She can't help but think that she is causing the extra pain in his leg.

She doesn't remember it being this bad until they were together, but then again, maybe she just never saw it.

She managed to haul him onto the couch and now she is cleaning the large stack of dishes in his sink to distract herself.

She cleans and she cries.

It is simply unfair. He doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this.

There is no question now. Something has changed.

His leg is getting worse.

She is scrubbing feverishly.

She finishes the dishes and does three loads of his laundry and then she hears the squeaking leather of his couch as he tries to change positions.

She rushes to his side.

_I feel like I've been here before-_ she thinks.

Her eyes are red-rimmed and he notices.

"Don't cry." His voice is extremely quiet.

_Too late_

"It's getting worse isn't it?"

He takes a moment and then nods.

"You need to get a PET scan. You need to see what's happening to your leg."

He doesn't say anything, but his face displays that he doesn't like that idea.

She touches his face.

"Are you afraid of what you might find?"

He keeps quiet, but in his silence she hears 'yes.'


	14. The End of the Uninformed

Ok, so this chapter has some random medical stuff in it. I try to avoid medical jargon at all costs because I literally can't do it. So when you read this, it probably makes NO sense whatsoever, but just ignore it and try to look for the...artistic merit. ;)

If I could through myself

Set your spirit free

I'd lead your heart away

And see you break away

-U2

The End of the Uninformed

She finally did it.

It had been weighing on her mind for months, and she actually did something about it.

She talked to Cuddy.

_Meet the new head of immunological research._

She loves the fact that she's away from all the colds and scraped knees, but the mountain of paperwork and cramped office she's just inherited aren't exactly a step up.

_Yet_

She feels bad.

Since taking on this new position House has sort of fallen by the way-side. He hasn't been particularly quiet about his contempt for this neglect either.

They haven't had sex in 2 weeks.

For them, that's a long time.

So even though she's insanely busy trying to reorganize charts, when he ambles through her new office door, she can't turn him away.

He flops down on her couch and she looks at him silently.

Her expression saying, 'yes?'

When he doesn't catch on,

"Is there something you wanted?"

She prepares for a witty barb most likely pertaining to sexual intercourse, a working leg, or a red-head named Chastity.

"We need to talk."

_Didn't know he was capable of uttering the words_

He looks sadly serious.

She doesn't need to hear yet again that he disapproves of her insane work ethic and that she always wakes him when she creeps into his place in the wee hours of the morning.

"I need your input."

_A case, that's it?_-she assumes.

And then, her beeper goes off. Convenient.

She tries to pull a guilty face, one that hides her exasperation.

"Can we talk about this later? I'm really swamped."

When he nods she rises from her desk and leaves him alone in her office.

* * *

There is a lull in her duties in the mid-afternoon.

She finds herself in his office amongst his things.

She pokes around his desk, filters through his mail, the old role reasserting itself instinctively.

He enters a moment later.

She regards him,

"Some research group in New York must really be interested in you."

She holds up five sealed letters all sharing the same return address.

He shrugs,

"Everyone wants a piece of this."

She smiles,

"What did you want to talk about?"

He pauses a long while, then replies,

"I'm getting a PET scan today."

_Oh_

"And I need you to look at these."

He hands her a file.

"Check for Wegener's, Chagas, Hashimoto's, and anything else you can think of."

She warily accepts his offering.

"Don't you have minions to do this sort of thing?"

"Their slide-viewing skills are sub-par."

She rolls her eyes.

_Yeah right_

"I'm thinking you're giving me some menial task so that I'm preoccupied and can't bother you about your PET scan."

There's a slight twitch of amusement in his mouth.

He's impressed.

"Why don't you want me to come?"

She asks.

He brushes passed her to his desk.

"It's not a big deal."

She glares, he concedes.

"It's my leg."

_Don't be clingy_

"Okay."

She turns to leave, file in hand.

"Okay? That's it?"

He asks disbelieving.

"It's your leg."

_And my heart_

* * *

"So are you nervous?"

Thirteen asks, obviously just trying to make polite conversation.

Cameron is looking at slides under the microscope.

"About what?"

She gives a confused look, Thirteen wears one of her own.

"You know, House, the surgery."

Her eyes leave the viewfinder of the microscope.

_What surgery?_

"What are you talking about?"

Thirteen's eyes widen and her mouth drops open.

"He didn't tell you?"

"Didn't tell me what?"

Cameron asks, tests forgotten.

Thirteen stutters and fumbles backward until she is out the lab door.

What. The. Fuck.

* * *

"It's been preformed successfully over a hundred times, but as with any surgery, there is a risk.

Given his previous history of drug and alcohol use, the risk to his liver is significantly higher than the average patient.

Because of the muscle death, the arteries in his thigh have shrunk significantly.

This surgery is designed to open up and create new arterial pathways increasing blood flow to the damaged area, hopefully reducing some of the pain he feels.

However, I must say that there is a chance that dead cells are hiding along the walls of his arteries, this surgery could flush them throughout his system, and we aren't sure his liver can

handle it on its own."

She lied and schemed.

She went through his mail until she found the name of the doctor.

She forged a paper saying she was his proxy.

She called the New York doctor.

He was going to get an experimental surgery.

In New York.

Without even telling her.

And now, the pieces are all falling into place.

The letters from New York.

Minimizing the internet windows when she enters the room.

His insistence that she not attend his pet scan.

All steps in concealing this ruse.

This elaborate, clandestine, deceptive, ruse.

And it has been going on for weeks.

He was going to go through with this surgery.

Did he think she wouldn't notice he was dead?

Or healed?

She is enraged.

How dare he?

She storms up to the PET scan imaging room. When she enters, instead of lying on the machine in a gown, he is propped in a chair, fully dressed, magazine in hand.

_He even lied about getting the scan_

"You son of a bitch."

As soon as he sees her, he knows she knows.

"Cameron"

He stands to reason with her, but her anger has been channeled into her arms and she shoves him.

He falls back into the chair, and it rolls across the floor, she advances.

"How could you?"

He looks away.

"How could you not tell me this?"

He opens his mouth but she doesn't even let him answer.

"What was your plan? Just disappear for a couple of weeks and not tell anyone?"

"I was going to tell you." He says to her.

Today in her office.

_What about the weeks before?_

"You tell Thirteen about this but not the woman you're screwing; not Wilson?"

She pauses in her tirade, her breath coming in pants.

"You said it yourself, it's my leg."

He stands. He reaches out for her arm.

"Don't touch me."

He recoils as if burned.

Now that the initial rush of anger has passed, hurt takes its place overwhelmingly.

Tears form in her eyes.

"Don't you realize? You're shutting me out. You're doing it again."

Stacy, lying, dangerous treatments.

He doesn't even try to deny it.

The weight of his betrayal settles in her limbs and she has to grasp the table to keep herself upright.

His voice is quiet.

"The pain…I can't handle it anymore. Something has to change."

She scoffs,

"And your solution is to lie to me about a life-threatening, experimental surgery."

He drops his head but says nothing.

A silence stretches between them.

She stands before him and puts her hand on his chest, just over his heart. A sad, humorless smile crosses her face.

"I'm never going to get in there am I?"

No words of reassurance, no reaffirming touches, nothing but calloused blue.

She nods acceptingly.

"I'm done with this, with you."

She leaves him alone in the imaging room.

* * *

Oh snap! -- more to come...soon (hopefully)


	15. Forward It Is

If I could stay

Then the night would give you up

Then the day would keep its trust

With the demons you drown

With the spirit I found

And the night would be enough

-U2

Forward It Is

This betrayal is unlike anything she has ever had to endure.

This is a pain she has never felt before.

With her husband there had been time to prepare for the suffering.

She knew he was going to die.

She had accepted and started preparing for her grief when she accepted his proposal.

But this—this is a misery tantamount to nothing.

She has nothing in her life to compare this.

Things had been going well.

And that's what hurts her.

It shows just how good of a liar he was.

_is_

That's the thing about a lie.

It casts an all-encompassing shadow, throwing all they had into a darkness of doubt.

He hasn't called.

He hasn't shown up at her door.

Her back aches, she had to sleep on the sofa. Her bedroom contains his things, her sheets retain his smell.

* * *

In the passing days, she throws herself into her work.

As long as she works, the more time passes, the less time she has to think about him.

_Worry about him_

Clinic hour five comes to a close and she sees Wilson approaching.

She knows what his presence means and she doesn't want any of it.

He comes to a stop beside her.

"He left for New York last night."

She says nothing.

"His surgery is scheduled for 2:00 today."

She scribbles notes on a file.

"Cameron," he lays his hand over the chart so she has to give him her attention.

"He screwed up, no one's denying that."

She scoffs at his understatement.

"I know you don't see a reason to forgive him."

She begins to walk away.

"You're right, I absolutely don't."

She's got patients waiting and her emotions won't suppress themselves.

"He won't recover from this."

Her step falters.

She stops.

She doesn't face him, but Wilson knows she heard him.

"And I don't think you will either."

He comes up beside her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes well up with tears and she can feel her anger diffusing, the walls of resentment she had quickly built crumbling down.

"Go to him."

She gives him a look.

He raises his hands defensively,

"I'm not saying you should take him back, but you and I both know that his mind will sabotage this treatment. If this doesn't work…he's done."

"The surgery or him and I?"

He shrugs,

"It doesn't matter."

He leaves her standing in the middle of the clinic, the world a blur around her, tears threatening to fall.

* * *

This love has left her shattered.

She doesn't know if she has the strength.

His love, if that's what this is, will only ever be parasitic.

He will take from her with minimum reciprocity, he will continue to push her until she breaks and succumbs to his whims, and he will always, _always_ be in control.

But she can think of nothing that doesn't involve him.

She has taken him in, swallowed him whole, whether she wanted him to or not, he has become a part of her.

Something vital.

There is no life for her beyond this man.

This love has ended a part of her life.

The part that can recover, rebound, and repair.

If she is terminal, unrecoverable, there's no point in starting anew.

She's already on the highway.

* * *

On the drive she prepares for what she will see.

She knows surgical patients don't look well.

It was something she never got used to.

The pasty pallor of their skin, the absent coma-like sleep, almost like a precursor to a death narrowly escaped.

By the time she reaches the hospital it's nearly seven.

He should be in recovery by now.

Visiting hours are drawing to a close but she brought her Princeton hospital badge.

She has no plan, but that doesn't deter her.

If there is one thing she has learned from House, it is that if you act like you know where you're going people won't stop you.

Then she sees him.

He is all tubes and wires.

The proof of his life displayed among several beeping screens.

She is not prepared for this.

When she physically sees the lengths he will go to lessen his pain, she won't—can't—inflict any more on him.

She will forgive him because she knows no other way.

She enters his room.

He is sleeping or still under the aid of anesthesia.

She moves to sit in one of the chairs next to his gurney, but in her state of duress her limbs are heavy and awkward.

She clumsily bumps the side of the chair causing it to make a loud grating noise over the linoleum floor.

She's frozen; midway between sitting and standing when he slowly opens his eyes.

She watches as they warily track across the room until they come to rest on her.

The breathing tube is still down his throat, inhibiting him from speaking.

In this moment she is envious because she has no clue what to say.

His eyes, seemingly unaffected by the medication in his veins, shine as bright and blue as ever.

She can read his pain, anguish, fatigue.

She is breaking down, cell by cell.

She approaches his bed, looks him up and down, tears streaming freely.

She is startled when she feels his hand cover hers.

His gaze is severe, rooting her to the spot.

He lifts her hand slowly and places it on his chest, underneath the fabric of his gown, just above his heart.

He presses down on her hand to make her understand.

_Oh god _

And now she is lost.

Whatever self-control, whatever hold she had on her emotions is gone.

She weeps openly in front of him.

This love is shattering, but here, in this moment, the pieces are all present, however disassembled they may be.

* * *

Since that first night, she hasn't spent much time in his room.

She's not ready for a confrontation; she's not ready to determine their fate.

He's propped up against the pillows in a semi-reclined manner.

His eyes are closed and he looks like he's asleep.

She lingers on the threshold of his hospital room.

Her body rests against the door frame, coat draped over her arm, trying to decide whether or not she should stay.

"You've been avoiding me."

She looks up. He hasn't even opened his eyes.

"How do you do that?"

It's like he can sense her presence sometimes.

"To be perfectly honest, the first couple of people I did that to weren't you."

In spite of everything she smiles.

"I should be getting back. I didn't tell anyone where I was going; no one is covering my shifts."

He nods.

She doesn't leave.

Instead, she enters and he makes room for her on the edge of his bed.

She stares intently at his thigh.

As if reading her thoughts,

"I won't know if it worked until after a few weeks of physical therapy."

She waits.

_Come on, say something_

She can tell he is trying so hard to formulate an answer.

"This won't be easy."

She doesn't know if he is talking about the therapy or her, but Wilson was right, it doesn't really matter.

The answer is always the same.

"I know."

She waits.

"I don't— " every word is a struggle, "I don't know if I can do this."

He finally meets her eyes,

"But I can't go back."

She understands the sentiment behind this statement.

He is giving her whatever is left of him.

Here's to hoping it's enough.

"I can't go back either."

Her reply is soft, but the weight of the statement isn't lost on either of them.

She touches his chin,

"So I guess the only way to move is forward?"

He lets out a held breath, nods, and smiles.

_Forward it is _


	16. Comparisons and Declarations

Sorry for the long wait...

The songs are real in your eyes

I see them when you smile

I've had enough of romantic love

I'd give it up for a miracle drug

-U2

Comparisons and Declarations

She has a mantra.

She has to repeat it to herself every day.

_I will get through this_

Come what may, she will pull herself together.

He is cold, angry, stubborn and aloof—more so than usual.

He doesn't speak to her unless she asks him pointedly.

Even then his only reaction has been to be an argumentative ass.

He refuses her help even when it is painfully obvious he needs it, and he has yet to show even the faintest bit of affection he had once shared with her.

She wonders if this is what Stacy went through.

It has been three weeks since his surgery.

Everyday he comes home from physical therapy frustrated and sore.

After one particularly bad day, she opened the bedroom door to see him downing pills with some whiskey.

He shouldn't need that many pills after surgery.

His pain, even with the strain of therapy, should be lessened.

She knows better than to confront him on the spot.

She still doesn't know where they stand.

Technically she ended their relationship, but here she still is; making him food, driving him to his appointments, staying in his home.

She plays with the paper napkin resting on the kitchen table.

He sits opposite her.

"You're using." Her accusation is flat.

He shrugs,

"I'm in pain."

She acts as though he hadn't said a word,

"And you're drinking."

She can tell he is annoyed.

"I'm assuming there's a point to this." His tone is sharp.

She must tread lightly here. One false move could send her plunging.

"You need to give yourself a chance. You know how dangerous mixing medication and alcohol is."

He interrupts her,

"Why are you still here? Why are you doing this?"

The question floats between them, hanging over the table.

She is astounded.

"Because…" she sputters.

_Because I love you_

"Because I care."

He counters,

"No, you can't _help_ but care."

She is so frustrated.

Any normal woman would be running, returning to a safe place, licking her wounds.

She is not running.

She hates that even as he stares at her after making hurtful comments, she is thinking about how easy it would be to slide into his lap, initiate the contact, and

return to love she was feeling before this whole mess.

But she won't.

She can't because she is still so angry; at him, but mostly at herself.

She should have seen this coming.

He lies, he schemes, this should have been expected.

She can feel him slipping away.

She needs to be near to him, feel near to him again.

She moves into the chair next to his; their knees brushing.

She can see that her shift has annoyed him, but she presses on.

"If you want me to leave, I'm gone." She gestures towards the door.

If he needs space he will get it.

Anything is better than this stalemate.

He doesn't speak.

He just stares at her with his sad eyes.

When he doesn't respond, she stands to leave.

His hand reaches out and touches her leg.

Surprised, she freezes.

He places his other hand on her other thigh and slides them up until they rest on her hips.

The way he is touching her, it's like he is reassuring himself that she whole, that she is still intact.

_And yet still so broken_

His message is loud and clear.

_Please stay_

He speaks, "You don't deserve this."

She cocks her head in response.

Now he knows she expects him to elaborate.

His face reads pure pain.

"I want," the words are hard to find, "I want to try again," he doesn't seem to like that.

"I don't know what I want."

He softly hits his forehead against her stomach.

"Yes you do," she drops to her knees in front of him, "You always know the answer."

Now her eyes are below his, her body between his legs.

He is the most brilliant man she knows.

Every diagnosis, every lie, and every tell; he observes and deciphers.

If there is a question he does not know the answer to, then it cannot be answered.

Any secret a person thinks they can keep hidden he will uncover.

She scans her memory, all the patients he cured, all the games he played, it is obvious to her.

When he is not right, all is wrong, and she can have no equilibrium.

"You always know." She repeats, her reply soft.

His question is sudden, unexpected.

"Do you love me?"

_I guess he doesn't always know_

She is astounded that he doesn't already know the answer.

"You really couldn't tell?"

_How can someone so smart be so blind?_

"You've never said it."

_Oh_

She looks away.

Words are itching on her tongue.

He nudges her,

"Say it."

Her eyes meet his.

He is serious.

Without hesitation,

"I love you."

His hand goes to his missing thigh muscle.

"I need to know," she says.

_I really do_

It's beyond comprehension for her that this single moment is the hinge-point for her entire life, and his last chance for happiness.

If he doesn't answer her, she still probably wouldn't leave him.

It doesn't matter anymore.

What he gives her, no matter how porous and incomplete will still be more than any other man.

She knows he had already tried to tell her in his own way after his surgery, but she thinks it would pale in comparison to the words actually leaving his lips.

She is almost literally at his feet, awaiting his next command.

She slides her hand over his leg as if saying,

"_I love all of you, even the missing parts_."

His voice is low, leaning towards her, he nods slowly.

"I love you."

Nope, there isn't a single thing to compare to this.

* * *

I debated doing the "i love you" scene. I'm still not sold on it at all. I don't know if House is capable. Anyway there are only a few (2-3) chapters left.


	17. Suppositions and Baby Steps

I will stick with you

Because there are no others

You are all I need

-Radiohead

Suppositions and Baby Steps

She has no silly notions.

No rosy pictures painted.

She knows that in no realm of the universe were they meant to be together.

She was never supposed to admire a man like him.

She was certainly never supposed to fall in love with him.

She was supposed to be married and he was supposed to be able to walk.

But, she's now realizing, hardly anything turns out the way it's supposed to.

_We all start out so perfect_, she muses as she stands in front of the big glass window of the maternity ward; newborns wriggling and squirming with their fresh skin and undamaged souls.

Sometimes she comes here when she needs to feel better.

She can't help but smile when one infant inadvertently flips her the bird.

"Don't even think about it," comes his gruff voice from behind her.

As she looks up she sees his reflection in the glass, she turns, shakes her head at him, smiling at his half-joke.

She doesn't even want to think about what children would be like with this man because she knows she will probably never get them.

She'll probably waste her child-bearing years clinging to this love.

"I was just passing by…" she trails off, he doesn't believe her.

With the way her life is heading, she isn't even sure she wants children.

What she wants, well, that vision is becoming more muddled by each passing day.

He ambles up to her, "You going to Cuddy's thing?"

Cuddy finally got her baby. The naming ceremony's tonight.

She sighs, "I suppose, are you?"

He gives her that look like he's questioning her intelligence, "I won't wait up."

She nods solemnly.

These days, it's getting a little harder for him to handle her sadness.

"Hey," he says to her, "watch this."

He tosses her his cane and gingerly sets his weight on his right leg.

Her eyes widen when she realizes what he is about to do.

He takes a slow step, with only a slight trace of his trademark limp.

He takes another and another until he is standing right before her.

Her mouth hangs open until she can find her words, "The surgery worked."

She says with a slight question in her voice.

He takes his cane back from her, "It's too soon to tell."

_baby steps_- she tells herself.

* * *

She studies her reflection in his bathroom mirror.

She feels oddly disconnected from herself today.

She fastens her simple diamond earring into place.

She wears a simple black dress and simple black heels; not exactly the cheeriest of ensembles for the occasion, but she's not entirely sure she's going to enjoy the event.

Of course he's not coming.

She will attempt to shield her disappointment.

She returns to the bedroom to grab her bag and jacket.

He sits on the bed, glasses on, reading a novel.

He looks over the tops of both the book and his glasses, gives her form a curt scan, and then returns to reading.

_What were you expecting?_

"I guess I'm off." He says nothing.

"Depending on the time, I might just head back to my place for the night."

His eyes stop reading for a second.

She notices.

"Okay"- that's all he says.

* * *

The party has all the usual suspects and many faces she doesn't recognize.

Cuddy is glowing and everyone just seems so goddamn happy.

She says a quick hello to Wilson, Foreman, and Chase, but Wilson is being the new doting "uncle", Foreman is wrapped up with 13, and Chase left after he received a page.

She really doesn't know many of the people. Nurses and office workers all blend together, she has been swallowed up by her own affairs lately.

_Try not to think about him now_

She drinks some wine.

She notices Foreman tangle his fingers with 13's.

She drinks some more wine.

The baby smiles up at Cuddy.

She doesn't feel so good.

The baby's name is Rachel.

She takes a breath.

Smiles all around, she's desperately trying to find hers.

And then, clarity.

Everything she'll probably never have is in this room with her, except the one thing she knows she wants.

Him.

Why is a deep breath so hard to find?

She shakily sets her glass down on an end table, a little wine sloshes over the side, she'll apologize for the stain later.

Right now she needs some air.

She's made her way through the crowd in the living room and is about to make a break for the front door when a hand grabs her arm.

She is pulled into the darkened empty hallway.

When she registers his smell and the fact that it is his chest she is up against, she sinks into his embrace.

_He came_

She can breathe again.

He holds her up, hands wrapped around her.

After a long moment she pulls away and looks up at him. They can hear the party in the next room; joyous noise.

They are silhouetted against the light radiating from other peoples' happiness. He seems to know what was plaguing her, why she was running.

He had probably been watching her.

He always has been able to read her like a book.

"How's Ramona?" he asks with no real sincerity, his voice low.

"Rachel," she corrects, "is beautiful."

"Whatever."

"Want to go make an appearance?" She asks, nodding at the party.

He looks from her to the living room. Wilson is making goofy faces at the baby, Cuddy sways from side to side contented, Foreman and 13 are beaming at each other.

She joins his gaze and frowns.

They are not happy people, at least not this kind of happy.

He shakes his head no, "Let's go home."

She's glad, she wouldn't want to spoil the mood.

* * *

She looks at her reflection in his bathroom mirror.

The simple black dress replaced with his t-shirt, the simple black heels discarded at the foot of his bed, the simple diamond earrings back in their box.

This just feels right.

She crawls into bed with him.

"Thank you," she says.

"For what?" his eyes are closed, sleep threatening.

"Coming to the party." They both know that's code for saving her from herself.

He shrugs, "You know me, I can't turn down free booze."

She smiles.

He didn't drink at the party, he didn't care if Cuddy saw him or not, he didn't care about having the opportunity to mock his colleagues, he came for her.

Because she needed him.

Because he loves her.

Which is the only thing she really wanted.

* * *

Uno mas. One more to go.


	18. An Ocean of Answers

Here it is, the end.

We can begin again

Shed our skin,

Let the sun shine in,

At the edge of the ocean

We can start over again

-Ivy

An Ocean of Answers

She's sick of this town.

She's sick of seeing the same tired faces.

She's sick of eating at the same blasé restaurants.

She wants to get away for a little while.

She desires the feeling of being just another face in the crowd, even if only for a few days.

Because in this town, everyone knows who she's supposed to be and everyone knows who he is.

And she is trying awfully hard to keep up the pretense that everything is okay.

Everyone else seems so normal, so satisfied.

She knows that it is impossible that _everyone_ around her is content, but if they aren't, they are doing a damn good job of hiding it.

It doesn't matter that it could all be an act.

It doesn't matter what inner struggles they are hiding, the fact that they can hide them speaks volumes.

Try as she might she can't even fake happiness anymore.

She takes solace in the fact that he is also incapable of projecting a false demeanor.

She's not depressed, she's definitely not suicidal, she's just not happy.

The only genuine moments are those spent with him.

Whoever said love conquers all is an idiot.

Love is supposed to be easy.

It's supposed to give you blinders to the ugly side of the world.

She's only ever loved two men.

Instead of blinders, she feels that her loves have been magnifying glasses.

There's nothing like watching your husband die to show you how cruel the world is.

There's nothing like watching the love of your life struggle with a handicap and an addiction everyday to show you how unfair life really is.

"I think we should go somewhere."

He looks at her skeptically.

"Right now?"

Such a literal man.

It's a Sunday evening and she is stretched atop him, kissing lightly at his throat, his hands resting on her thighs.

"No, I mean I think we should take a trip, get out of town for a while."

He rolls her off him gently,

"I can think of a hundred other things I'd rather do." He smirks before lowering his head to her neck, scratching her with his scruff.

She laughs,

"Just think about it okay?"

His hands slip lower, his tone is darker, the playfulness gone from his voice.

"I'm always thinking."

She has to close her eyes when she feels his fingers working.

She wonders what its like to be unable to turn off your mind. She can lose herself for awhile in a book or movie.

He is not like this.

She notices the dozen or so books and magazines strewn about his home; all on different pages, all unfinished, his interest lost.

She now understands the monster trucks, the motorcycle riding, the drug use.

Because he can't dilute the potency of his thoughts, he overloads his senses, trying to edge the troubling from the forefront of his mind.

She has deduced that it must be unpleasant to have his mind; with all the ugly things he's tried to stop its working.

She opens her eyes to see him positioning himself into her.

She has to wince and a little noise escapes her.

His hand rubs along her ribs, relaxing her body.

This moment never changes from the first time.

The intensity never dulled, the twinge of pleasurable pain never lessened.

The sense of fulfillment and pride she gets from pleasing him exceeds any other accomplishment in her life.

She never thought she'd be that kind of woman.

His movements are slow; he's trying to draw this out.

She opens her eyes to see him staring down at her.

She likes looking down and watching their movements.

She knows it turns him on.

This pace is maddening.

She puts her hands on his hips, trying to hurry his torturously slow movements.

His hands grab hers. He twines their fingers and forces them down, pinned to the sheets.

She can feel something rising inside herself, his mouth is on hers, his hands on her own, his stomach slapping against hers, the knowledge that in some way he loves

her, it is all too much.

_I'd let you take me anywhere._

* * *

She was there when he found out.

Kutner killed himself.

Hers were the first pair of eyes his sought out.

He dismissed Foreman, Taub, and 13 with a wave of his hand.

She turned to leave too, but his hand grabbed her.

She had opened her mouth, trying to find something comforting to say, but he speaks first.

"We need to get into Kutner's apartment."

She wasn't expecting that.

She's worried.

This seems inexplicable.

He doesn't deal with this type of thing very well.

He cannot comprehend that he missed something.

Some vital sign that could have clued him into Kutner's feelings.

They don't sit together at Kutner's funeral.

'No need to raise any eyebrows'- he'd said.

She knows he's not okay.

No one is okay.

She is expecting cold distance for awhile.

She will weather it.

She has learned how.

She has been through enough of his storms to know that they do, in time, pass.

_Like the changing weather_

Watching the release of the ashes is when she is frozen.

She looks across the crowd of people to where she knows he is standing.

All dressed up in black, she searches for blue.

And there he is, staring at the ground, not at the sky like everyone else.

The crowd disperses, people leaving the scene, obstructing her view of him for fleeting seconds.

When he reappears, their eyes connect.

He nods towards the car.

They leave together.

She slides into the passenger seat. Her head turned away from him, staring out the window.

She is expecting an impenetrable wall built between them on the car's center console, that only time will bring down.

So, she is startled when she feels his hand on her knee.

There is a look in his eyes she has never seen.

"Let's go someplace." He says.

_Complete surrender_

_

* * *

_

Somewhere along the last year of her life, she lost herself.

She never thought she'd be this dependent on another person.

She never thought so much of her well-being would rest on the shoulders of this man.

She's lost a lot in her life, but she never thought her principles would be amongst the lost.

She euthanized a patient; she's sacrificed relationships, and endangered her career.

When Kutner died, something snapped in him, in her.

They had to get away.

They rented a beach house on the Connecticut shore.

They bought one-way tickets, not putting on a time limit.

She had always found the ocean to be medicinal.

And after all that has happened, there was some healing to be done.

She has never seen him quite like this.

He seems relaxed, at peace with himself, and it's slightly disconcerting to her how much she would sacrifice to get him to this state.

She is quiet.

He notices her faraway look.

"That frown you're wearing might as well say, 'I've got something uncomfortable on my mind.'"

Damn, she thought she'd learned to mask her expressions around him.

She shakes her head trying to deter him, but of course that only spurs his curiosity.

He props himself up on an elbow.

"Now, I'm not exactly sure what to do in this situation, it's usually the other way around."

He's attempting to make a joke at his own expense.

She has to give him something.

"I don't know," she starts.

"This past year, I've done some things I'm not proud of. I've compromised everything I thought I was," she stops, "This isn't making any sense is it?"

She is dancing around the obvious words and he's pretending he doesn't know what she means.

He changed her.

Irrevocably.

She sits up, draws her knees up to her chest.

"There are so many things I wanted for myself, and now I don't want them anymore. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't know myself anymore."

She observes the effects of her words as he soaks them in.

He sits all the way up.

His shirt, his eyes, the ocean, the sky, all blue.

"There are two types of people in the world." She looks to him as he begins to speak, but his eyes are on the tides.

"People like you," he begins again, "are long drawn out confessions. Giving themselves up bit by bit, piece by piece, until there's nothing left to give, no puzzle left to

solve."

She has contemplated the fact that she may only ever be a complexity to him.

A broken beauty queen, a walking enigma; a phenomenon just too anomalous for him to pass up.

Walking enigma or not, as of right now, he's all she's got. He continues,

"Then there are people like me."

The corner of his mouth turns up a little, "geniuses of compression. People like me can compartmentalize, rationalize; reduce things to their smallest.

We fear change enough to get ahead of it. Runaway before it catches us."

He brushes sand off the blanket they are sitting on.

She wrinkles her nose when she feels stray grains float across her skin, tingling as they go.

"People like you try to run, but can't ever seem to make it out the door without that last damning look over their shoulder."

Her dying husband, the excessive caring, her inability to refuse him.

He knows, she knows, they know it all, have heard it all before.

He isn't done yet.

"People like me don't plan on meeting people like you."

He picks at the fraying seams of the blanket.

"Because when we do," she's hanging on his word, "our flaws are reflected in you, and become obviously apparent."

She furrows her brow, trying to follow.

Seeing her, being with her, shows him all the things he would have to change in order to deserve her.

_A mirror of sorts_

But mirrors only show the physical.

She has no physical scars.

When will he see that they are on the same level?

That neither is unworthy of the other?

He lays flat on his back, changing the view from sea to sky.

"You know who you are; it's just not who you thought you'd be."

She lies with him.

His arm curls around her, dragging her up against his body.

Crisp air blows strands of her hair across his chest.

He is right.

And she is letting go.

If they have learned anything from being with each other, it is that they don't have all the answers.

He knows he can't save everyone.

She now knows not everyone needs saving.

She's going to let her life come together by itself.

All she needs is time.

She mumbles against his shirt, "I'm glad we came here."

Eyes closed, he nods, "Me too."

She thinks they are going to be okay.

As she lies next to the source of most of her thoughts, she knows that somewhere along this road, with him, she'll find herself again.

The End

* * *

Thanks to everyone who followed this story, I hope I did them justice.


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